HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS OF THE 
MISSISSIPPI VALLEY 



Tt§h<^o, 



^ - ^ O 




Baiting the Hook 



HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS 

OF THE 

MISSISSIPPI VALLEY 




Published by THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
New York McMVi 

LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 






Copyright, igob, 

by The Macmillan Company. 



Set up and electrotyped. 
Published October, 1906. 



U5RARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 6 1906 

w, Copyrlitnt Entry 

CLASS A XXC, No. 

/ ^^ C ft 7^ 
COPY 8/ 



Electrotyped 

and 

Printed 

at the 

Norwood Press, 
Norwood, Mass. 



Most of the chapters in 
this volume were first pub- 
lished in The Outing Maga- 
zine. Other portions have 
appeared in The Delineator, 
in Good Housekeeping, and 
in The New England Maga- 



zine. 



Contents 



CHAPTER 

I. The City behind the Levee 

II. Mosquitos and Alligators 

III. The Land of Rice and Sugar . 

IV. Spring in Mississippi 

V. Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 

VI. Travelling in Arkansaw 

VII. Life in the Ozarks 

VIII. At the Meeting of the Waters 

IX. Mark Twain's Country 

X. The Place of a Vanished City 

XI. Farm Life in Iowa 

XII. On the Minnesota Prairies 

XIII. New Times and Old in Wisconsin 

XIV. Houseboat Life . 

XV. The Headwaters of the Great River 



I 

i8 

45 
59 
84 

107 
1 24 
148 
160 

183 
201 
215 
230 
251 
266 



Illustrations 



Baiting the Hook 

A Worker .... 

One of the Old Narrow Streets . 

Little Italians 

On the Way to her First Communion 

"Shooting Craps" 

The Captive .... 

Dragging an Alligator from its Hole 

A Camp in the Swamps . 

A Shot at a Deer 

A Cabin Window . 

Hoeing Sugar-cane . 

The Students . . . 

In the Heat of the Day 

High Water .... 

A Dugout .... 

Beside the " Bayou" 

A Landing at the Levee . 

A Negro Cabin 

The Sitting Hen's Prison Coop 

On the Porch 

Explaining the Situation . 



Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 
2 

6 
1 1 

15 

18 

22 
27 

31 
32 
49 
50 
54 
59 
63 
64 

68 

77 
84 
86 

91 

96 



Illustrations 



FACING PAGE 



Returning to Camp from the Village 

Work in the Woodland . 

The Fishermen 

The Weather in the Almanac 

Browsing in the Woods 

Going to Market . 

Travellers 

Beside the Kitchen Fire . 

Making a Hen-coop 

Prospects of a Blackbird Pie 

In time of Flood 

Soft-soap 

The Stepping-stones at the Ford 

Mark Twain's Boyhood Home 

A Game of Quoits . 

Afternoon Comfort . 

Visiting 

The Prophet's Well 

An Old Mormon Doorway 

A Garden Bonfire . 

Calking the Boat 

Making a Willow Whistle 

Ditching 

Churning at the Back Door 

A Notice on the Schoolhouse Door 

Renewing a Town Walk . 

The Fascination of the Stream 



Illustrations 



XI 



A Pitcher of Milk . 

A Pause in the Day's Labor 

A Rustic Bridge 

The Upper Mississippi 

At the Back Door . 

Making Lye for Soft-soap 

Starting for Work . 

A House-boat Dog . 

The News . 

Fishermen 

A Bateau 

The Forest Fire 

Floating Logs down the Mississippi near its Source 

The Frame of an Indian Wigwam 



FACING PAGE 

226 
228 

237 

242 
244 

258 
271 
274 
281 
287 



Introductory Note 

Like its predecessors, this volume concerns itself 

; especially with country life. To the traveller, no life 

IS more mteresting, and yet there is none with which 

It IS so difficult to get into close and unconventional 

contact. Ordinarily, we get only casual ghmpses. 

^ For this reason I have wandered much on country 

roads and lodged most of the time with the farm 

I families or at the village hotels. In both text and 

I pictures I have tried to show actual hfe and nature 

j as 1 saw them in characteristic and interesting sections 

\ from one end to the other of the vast valley. 

The volumes in this series are often consulted by 
persons who are planning pleasure tours. To make 
the books more helpful in this respect, I have ap- 
pended to each chapter a note containing suggestions 
for intending travellers. With the aid of these notes, 
I thmk one can readily decide what regions one would 
like particularly to see, and know how to see such 
regions with the most comfort and facility. 

Clifton Johnson. 

Hadley, Mass. 



Highways and Byways of the 
Mississippi Valley 

I 

THE CITY BEHIND THE LEVEE 

THE country in and about New Orleans, if it 
was in a state of nature, would be mostly 
marshland. When it was first settled, the 
cabins of the future metropolis stood among weeds and 
willows and rank swamp growths, and the hamlet was 
infested with mosquitoes, snakes, frogs, and alligators. 
Every time the Mississippi was in flood, the water came 
creeping over the land, and it was not long before the 
inhabitants began to bank out the ravaging river and 
attempt to drain away the surplus moisture of the soil. 
As the city grew, the levee was extended and strength- 
ened, and that great earthen rampart along the water 
front is to-day the community's chief dependence for 
health and for protection against the vast destruction 
that would be wrought by the constantly recurring 
floods. Whenever the water is up, the city lies lower 
than the river level, and if the stream gets so high that 
it threatens to wash over the crest of the embankment. 



2 Highways ^nd Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

there is intense excitement, and hasty bulwarks of 
sandbags are piled on top of the levee where the danger 
is most serious. 

The situation is strange and dramatic. It stirs the 
imagination and arouses the interest, and when one 
thinks of New Orleans, the Mississippi and the stout 
wall of earth flanking it seem the most vital features 
of the place. My impulse, therefore, was to seek the 
river front as soon as I arrived in the city. There I 
had my first sight of the giant stream of our continent 
— and what a sullen, murky, threatening torrent it 
was ! The banks were nearly brimming full, for I had 
come in early April, and the flood season is ordinarily 
included in that month and the one following. 

The water was a dull yellow color and looked like 
liquid mud. I was surprised to see people drinking 
the dubious fluid, and I learned that the riverside 
workers and loiterers had a real relish for it. Some 
would kneel at the water's edge and dip it up with their 
hands for a hasty gulp; but most depended on tin 
receptacles which were to be found here and there on 
the wharves, and which had usually done service for 
holding canned goods. Each had a string attached, so 
that you could let it down and fill it while standing on 
the wharf. I was curious to know how that thick and 
soupy liquid tasted, and I picked up one of the cans and 
lowered it into the water. 

A man was sitting near with a line in his hand, trying 




I ' 



A Worker 



The City behind the Levee 3 

to entice some fish from the roily depths. He noted 
what I was doing, and saw that I was a green hand, and 
when I began drawing up my cup he advised me to 
empty it and try again. "You got that water right 
at the surface where it ain't clean," he said, **Dip 
down deep." 

I did as he bid, and, after all, the water was not bad. 
It was palatable enough in spite of its earthy flavor 
and slight hint of grittiness. 

The river was streaked and strewn with scurrying 
■rubbish, and wherever along the shore there was an 
obstruction the floating trash caught in masses. A good 
many men and boys were securing such of it as might 
serve for firewood and were piling it on the wharves. 
Most of them caught it with their hands or with poles 
and ropes, but occasionally a boat was used. One 
fellow who seemed to be doing especially well had a 
spike-pole with a cord attached, and when a stick was 
a little too far out to reach in the ordinary way he threw 
the pole like a harpoon. 

I had an impression I could see all of New Orleans' 
shipping in an afternoon's ramble, and I kept on along 
the river northward until I became dismayed at the 
endless sweep of the wharves. The city is one of the 
chief commercial gateways of our continent, and the 
wharves line the stream for a distance of twelve miles. 
They accommodate the local craft, the river boats, and 
a great fleet of ocean vessels from the world over. The 



4 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

river itself seems dwarfed when the monster steamers 
of the ocean plough through its dun waters. Perhaps 
the most interesting boats at the wharves are the Missis- 
sippi packets — white, swan-like, with towering smoke- 
stacks, and a long gang-plank suspended in mid-air at 
the prow. Then there is an odd medley of ferry-boats, 
tugs, titanic dredges clawing up the mud from the river 
bottom, luggers with their curious lanteen sails, and 
fruit vessels from the West Indies, Mexico, and South 
America. The flow of produce in and out never ceases. 

Some classes of goods go at once into the warehouses, 
trains, or vessels, but others are stacked for a longer or 
shorter time on the wharves. There are vast quantities 
of great, clumsy cotton bales, rows of oozy molasses 
barrels, heaps of raw sugar in coarse brown bags, piles 
of lumber, great odorous hogsheads of tobacco, and 
boxes and crates and bales of a thousand shapes and a 
thousand variations of contents. But cotton is more 
predominant than anything else; for New Orleans is 
the greatest cotton port in the world, and the storing, 
selling, and handling this product furnishes a livelihood 
to the majority of the city's three hundred thousand 
inhabitants. 

The wharves are a working-place, and they are like- 
wise a loafing-place. The hobbling elders and the boys 
resort thither to spend their leisure and feel the throb 
of life and watch the work and the river. The sight- 
seer from a distance is there to witness the activity, and 



The City behind the Levee 5 

the laborer out of a job who is more or less desirous of 
finding another is drawn there also. If he finds work 
he becomes a part of the busy turmoil, and if he does 
not find work he drifts about as chance and momentary 
fancy may direct. Possibly he takes a nap. The 
colored man on a warm day can stretch out or double 
up almost anywhere and sleep interminably. 

The wharves are not without their compensations to 
the loafers. There is always something new and in- 
teresting going on, and stray eatables are often to be 
had perfectly free, especially if fruit steamers are un- 
loading. For instance, when a banana vessel discharges 
its cargo, you will see the stevedores in half a dozen 
Hnes, each man with a bunch of fruit on his shoulder 
carrying it from the vessel to the refrigerator cars. 
Many bananas get broken off, and others that are over- 
ripe are pulled off the bunches purposely. Every 
worker treasures up a few of the best to carry home, 
and the remainder of the pickings are thrown aside. 
Hovering around the edge of the workers is a throng 
of men and boys watching for a chance to secure a 
share of the discarded bananas, and all of these human 
buzzards get their hands full of really excellent fruit. 
Some of the waste fruit is thrown into the water, and 
close under the steamer's hull you will perhaps see a 
rowboat with a couple of boys in it, one at the oars, and 
his companion capturing the floating plunder with a 
scoop-net. 



6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Another dainty easily to be had by everybody is 
sugar. Raw sugar in bags comes from Cuba in vast 
quantities, and as the sacks lie on the wharf a man 
with a gouge digs into the side of each for a sample. 
Any one who chooses can then thrust in his fingers and 
sample the contents on his own account, and many take 
advantage of the opportunity. 

New Orleans' chief thoroughfare is Canal Street, a 
broad, modern business street that divides the old 
town from the new — the foreign city from the Ameri- 
can. The latter is comparatively uninteresting, but 
on the other side of the dividing line the manners and 
customs of France prevail. French is the principal 
language and the streets bear French names. The 
people keep to themselves, and some of them are said 
never to have crossed Canal Street. Indeed, this dis- 
trict is probably more foreign in aspect and life than 
any other that could be encountered in the United 
States. Such narrow streets, such queer, balconied 
houses, such strange little shops, grimy and dark, and 
so many people of alien features who do not understand 
English, or who speak it with an unfamiHar accent ! 

The population is dense, and you see frequent doors 
where passages lead to dwellings behind those fronting 
on the streets. Every house has its courtyard, and this 
is usually paved, and has flowers, vines, shrubs, and pos- 
sibly tall trees growing in it. One article never absent 
is a cistern, a great, high, hooped affair that will hold 




One of the Old Narrow Streets 



The City behind the Levee 7 

several hogsheads. Into it flows the rain-water from 
the roofs. This water is used for all sorts of household 
purposes, — even drinking; but it tastes of roofs and 
receptacle, and most people prefer Mississippi water 
when they can get it. The better class of families have 
river water piped into their houses from the city water- 
works and filter it for drinking. Others get water in 
barrels or bottles from springs a few score miles out in 
the country. 

The courtyard is the children's playground. There 
their elders loiter, and there the washerwoman does her 
scrubbing and hangs out the clothes. The buildings 
around are balconied, and the whole space is a con- 
venient gathering-place for rubbish, and never lacks 
picturesqueness. Often fig trees flourish and ripen their 
fruit in it, and sometimes it contains lofty magnolias — 
queenly trees that all summer open their large, white, 
fragrant blossoms amid the glossy foliage. 

Some of the city buildings date back over a century 
to Spanish times, and their quaint and massive architec- 
ture and weatherstained, battered walls have a charm 
all their own. One of the most imposing mansions 
belonging to a slightly later period is a large, square 
structure, erected by an admirer of Napoleon at the 
time of that noted leader's adversity. The emperor 
was urged to come to New Orleans and accept the man- 
sion for his residence, but he did not see fit to take 
advantage of the generous off^er. 



8 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Another large building is known as "the haunted 
house," and every local inhabitant can tell strange 
legends concerning it. In the days long before the 
war, it was the home of an ogress-like French madame. 
"She had much money," said a woman who told me 
its story; "and she would buy slaves just to torture 
them. She would hang them up in the garret by their 
thumbs and whip them. The slave babies she would 
throw into the cistern, and after she was gone they 
found that cistern full of the babies she'd drowned. 
Many a mean thing was done in slavery times, but that 
was the worstest I've ever heard; and yet slavery was 
well enough in most families. Those niggers we had 
them times reely had to have a boss over them. They 
were not'ing but animals — and so wild they had to be 
tamed. They were ugly-lookin', too — like apes, with 
big thick lips and flat noses, and hair that kinky you 
couldn't get a comb in it. We don't have such niggers 
any more; but I was tellin' you about that French 
woman. There were gardens around the house then, 
and the street w^as not built up solid as it is now^; and, 
besides, the stone walls of the house were very thick. 
So nobody heard the cryin' and hollerin' of the slaves. 
But in the end she was found out, though she was slick 
enough to see there was goin' to be trouble, and she ran 
away to France. 

"After that the house was empty and people began 
to see lights in the windows at night, and when they 



The City behind the Levee 9 

listened at the doors they would hear the cries of the 
dead slaves. For a long time it stayed closed up and 
then a high school was started in it; but the children 
saw ghost people going through the rooms and heard 
sounds that scared them, and they would jump up and 
run out screaming and yelling. They just couldn't 
stay there, and the school had to stop. The building 
was no use to nobody and couldn't be sold or rented 
till many years passed, and then a Dago who didn't 
believe in haunts bought it for very much less than it 
was worth. He's got people livin' in it, and has a 
saloon on the ground floor, and he charges a nickel 
admission to see the building inside. Some say they 
still hear queer things there; but others do not hear 
not'ing strange at all." 

It is quite evident to the wanderer in the Creole 
quarter that the days of glory for this part of the city 
are of the past. Business and fashion have moved on 
and left the district stranded on the shores of time, 
though its decay and tendency to dilapidation doubtless 
make it more moving to the imagination than it was in 
its heyday of prosperity. 

"Oh, things was very different here before the war," 
explained the woman who told me about the haunted 
house. "The old French part that you now see so 
shabby was very fine then. Everybody was rich. 
You could pick up the money by the barrelful. The 
white people didn't need to do any work. They all 



lO Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

had servants. Some of 'em wouldn't even put on their 
own shoes when they got up in the morning, but had a 
slave do it. Then the war came and knocked us all 
down. Everybody lost — lost money, lost property, 
lost slaves. The change was hardest of all on the 
Creoles. They had too much pride to work — yes, 
they would starve rather than work, and so this old 
part of the city has been poor ever since." 

A peculiar characteristic of the city is that family 
food supplies are largely obtained from markets where 
many tradesmen congregate in a single great shed-like 
building. The smaller markets are only open in the 
morning and later are deserted to myriads of flies and 
doubtful odors. The early hours of the day are the 
marketing hours, and much of the buying is done before 
breakfast; but in the neighborhood of the great French 
market, near the cathedral and the wharves, there is a 
coming and going of basket-laden, sunbonneted women 
all day. A series of widespreading roofs mounted on 
iron or masonry pillars here shelter a dim and cavernous 
interior, where you find a wonderful array of fruit, 
vegetables, turtles, tropical fish — plunder of every 
variety both of land and sea and from far and near. 

The New Orleans streets are in a few instances 
paved with asphalt, but most are laid with big square 
slabs of granite, which time and travel have canted at 
all sorts of angles and worn and battered into all sorts 
of roughnesses. Over these stones the trafl!ic jolts and 




Little Italians 



The City behind the Levee 1 1 

rattles, and when a loaded cart approaches with any 
speed there is such a crash of impending doom as makes 
the unaccustomed stranger jump with alarm. 

Owing to the low, marshy situation of the town, 
an underground drainage system presents exceptional 
difficulties, and in the old city the street gutters serve 
as sewers and likewise as a dumping-place for garbage. 
They are encumbered by refuse through which flows a 
filthy, sluggish rivulet, and I have never encountered 
dirtier and more ill-smelling thoroughfares. A recent 
report of the superintendent of streets lists some of the 
gutter trash as "plank, bags, wads of paper, straw, 
wire, decayed vegetables, kettles, cans, boxes, banana 
stems, cast-ofF furniture, dead puppies and rats." 

The gutters of the city slope away from the river to 
canals, from which the water is pumped into channels 
connecting with Lake Pontchartrain, five or six miles 
distant. The lake is a broad inreach from the Gulf of 
Mexico, and is several feet lower than the river. 

The same cause that results in surface drainage 
accounts for the habit of making burials in tombs above 
ground instead of in the watery soil. The cemeteries 
are heavily walled about and thickset with the brick or 
marble dwellings of the dead. These tombs usually 
consist of two vaults well cemented to prevent exhala- 
tions from interred bodies; but sometimes the vaults 
are built in a solid mass in tiers and are then called 
ovens. Rigorous laws are enforced to prevent vaults 



12 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

being opened until a year or two has passed after a 
burial. Then, if a vault is needed for another body, it 
is unsealed, the coffin within is broken up and burned, 
and the bones are deposited in a space left for the pur- 
pose at the base of the tomb. Thus many burials can 
be made in the same vault. 

One cemetery that attracts a particularly numerous 
concourse of visitors has a tall stone chapel in it dedicated 
to St. Roch. Here miracles are wrought which have 
made the place famous. According to a little pink- 
covered pamphlet sold at the cemetery, St. Roch is one 
of the greatest saints of France. He was born in 1294, 
marked with a small red cross in the region of his heart. 
This singular mark was considered by his parents to 
foretell his future holiness, and he early "astonished 
every one by the pious and charitable instincts of his 
gifted soul." 

At the age of fifteen his parents died, and he became 
the heir of "their vast wealth." He was too young to 
have entire control of this property, but he promptly 
gave away as much of it as was at his disposal. Then 
he put on the garb of a pilgrim and started for Rome. 
On the way he came to a city where the plague was 
raging. That "inflamed his charitable zeal," and he 
began nursing; the sick. "God rewarded his noble 

to o 

sacrifice," and in a short time the plague disappeared. 

Then he plodded to another city similarly afflicted, 

and "delivered it from the ravages of the plague." 



The City behind the Levee 13 

Everywhere he went the result was the same. Con- 
tagion fled before him, and it began to be whispered 
about that he was an angel in disguise. Many he 
restored to health by simply making the sign of the cross 
over them. For years he continued his labors among 
the Italian cities, but at last he himself fell a victim to 
the epidemic and crept away to a cave in the forest. 
After closing the entrance with brush he knelt to pray, 
when a fountain of sparkling water burst forth right 
before him. He quenched his thirst and washed and 
was much refreshed. Such was the power of the water 
that he presently entirely recovered. Then he returned to 
his early home in France. But he was not recognized, 
and "his sole ambition being to endure humiliations 
for the love of Christ," he would not tell who he was. 
That put him under suspicion, and he was arrested 
as a vagabond of doubtful character and thrust into 
prison. For five years he continued in the prison 
"communing with God and practising the severest 
austerities, his only food bread and water, and even that 
used abstemiously." Death came to his relief at the 
age of thirty-four, and when the jailer found him life- 
less on his dungeon floor the apartment was filled with 
a mysterious light, and near the body lay a marble 
tablet with the following inscription on it in letters of 
gold: "Thou who, being attacked by the plague, will 
have recourse to the powerful protection of Blessed 
Roch, beloved by God, shall find immediate relief." 



14 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The mark of a cross was found on the dead man's 
breast, and then it was known that he was St. Roch. 
The next year his native city built a chapel in his honor, 
and since, in other sections of France and in other 
countries of Europe, temples, chapels, altars, and 
statues of St. Roch have multiplied. Nearly all these 
originated in a sense of gratitude for protection he had 
granted in periods of public distress to the communities 
which have erected them. 

The New Orleans chapel was dedicated to St. Roch 
at the time of the city's yellow fever epidemic in 1878, 
and the municipality continued remarkably free from 
devastation by contagious diseases until the city was 
again invaded by yellow fever in 1905. The little 
Gothic chapel is now popularly known as a wishing 
shrine. Thither people come to pray for whatever they 
happen to desire, confident that they have a much bet- 
ter chance of having their wishes granted than if they 
offered their petitions elsewhere. A considerable pro- 
portion of its patrons are young women who beg the 
good saint to send them husbands. 

In the dim, cool interior, when I was there, several 
yellow candles were burning before the altar — votive 
offerings of visitors. The walls were hung with small 
tablets bearing the word Merci, and with crutches left 
by the lame and halt who have been healed at this 
miraculous spot, and with casts of hands, feet, legs, etc., 
presented by persons cured in this member or that. 




On the Way 'to her First Communion 



The City behind the Levee 15 

Yet not all requests are granted, and many who come 
hopeful go away with sad disappointments and heart- 
aches. Thus, one person told me about a cripple boy 
whose spine had been hurt when he was a baby. "He 
was all shakified," the narrator continued, "and he 
couldn't walk well, and he speak so bad you couldn't 
hardly tell what he said. They took him to St. Roch 
Cemetery, and soon as he was inside the gate he didn't 
walk lame any more, but began to run to the chapel; 
and they were scared to see him do like that. I suppose 
the angel was acting on him; but it give his folks such 
a funny feeling that they took him away and wouldn't 
go again. Perhaps, if they had kept on going he might 
be well now instead of a poor little cripple. But you 
can't tell. I know lots who have visited St. Roch's 
Chapel and had more trouble afterward than they did 
before." 

Of points of interest in the city environs I was most 
attracted by the battle-field a half dozen miles down the 
river, where Andrew Jackson won his famous fight with 
the British. The latter part of the way I walked 
along the crest of the levee. On one side was the 
muddy torrent of the Mississippi almost washing the 
top of the embankment. On the other side, ten or 
fifteen feet below the river level, were mansions and 
cabins amid fields luscious with tall grasses and 
odorous with clover blossoms. The trees were full- 
foliaged, all the early vegetables were ready for market, 



1 6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

innumerable birds were singing, and the roads were 
thick-covered with a pow^dery dust. 

I found the battle-field amid broad, level pasture- 
lands, and essentially unchanged since 1815. Here 
Jackson, with about six thousand men, threw up en- 
trenchments between the river and a swamp, and 
awaited the assault of Pakenham's veterans, who out- 
numbered the defendants two to one. The battle 
lasted less than thirty minutes; yet in that time the 
attacking force lost twenty-six hundred men, while the 
Americans had only eight killed and thirteen wounded. 
Never in all history was an English army so badly 
defeated. 

Portions of the old earthwork behind which the 
Americans fought still remain, and in the w4de hollow 
of the ditch, from which the earth was excavated, are 
pools and stretches of stagnant water, the home of 
mud-turtles and frogs, the breeding-place of mosquitoes, 
and the hunting-ground of darning-needles. I com- 
bated the mosquitoes as long as I lingered, but they 
were persistent in spite of serious losses, and I presently 
retreated to the city. 

I arrived in the early afternoon. It was a typical 
day — the air clear, the sunshine burning. I was 
never much inclined to stir about in the noontide hours, 
and, like every one else, if I chanced to be on the streets 
at that time I kept to the shady side. Shade was at a 
premium, and as much of it was secured as possible by 



The City behind the Levee 17 

balconies on the house fronts and roofed sidewalks 
before the stores; and when the sunlight slanted be- 
neath these roofs, curtains were drawn down from 
under the eaves to shut out the glare and the heat. 

Yet while it was so sweltering in New Orleans, the 
papers told of blizzards, frosts, and snow in the North. 
What a land of contrasts ! 

Note. — New Orleans possesses many attractions for the tourist, and 
one can stay an indefinite length of time without exhausting its interest. 
I have spoken only of salient features that I myself enjoyed most, but 
there is much else that has a strong appeal to the stranger. Get a guide- 
book at a news stand, and you will find in it all the detailed information 
necessary to enable you to decide what you wish to see. As a rule, the 
points of interest are quite accessible, most of them by trolley, and the 
expense of sightseeing need be but small. It is advisable, however, 
if one would be comfortable, to go only to the best hotels and restau- 
rants. Among the various river trips that can be made, perhaps the 
most attractive is an excursion down to where the river joins the gulf. 



II 

MOSQUITOES AND ALLIGATORS 

IN the delta country of the lower Mississippi, 
swamplands are everywhere predominant, and 
the watersoaked marshes alternate endlessly 
with ponds, lakes, and sluggish streams. It is a region 
not easily brought under subjection by man, and though 
the sawmills and the fires sweep off the forests, the 
country they leave behind is almost as lonely and lack- 
ing in human inhabitants as before. There the crea- 
tures of the wilderness make their homes, and one would 
have to go far to find any district that presents so many 
advantages for their safety. Yet they are not left in 
peace, for no difficulties can wholly daunt the hunters 
and the native trappers. 

To get a first-hand view of conditions in the swamp 
country, I made several visits to a little place a few miles 
out of New Orleans. My acquaintance with it began 
on a Sunday. There is always an exodus from the city 
on pleasant Sabbaths, and the train on which I went was 
crowded. Everybody seemed to be starting on a pic- 
nic — old and young, singly, in friendly groups, and in 
family parties — and they were all well laden with 

i8 




u 



o 
o 

X 
CO 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 19 

baskets and boxes of food, and with guns or nets and 
fishpoles. Many got off at each station, and when I, 
too, left the train, it was with the usual crowd. The 
hunters and the fishermen lost no time in dispersing to 
their favorite haunts and I was left alone. 

Four or five cabin homes and meagre garden patches 
were within sight, ana the rest was ragged forest and 
reedy marshes. It was all so forlorn that I wished 
myself back in the city, but there was no train till 
toward night. I sat down in the rude little shed that 
served for a station to consider, and a few score of 
mosquitoes promptly began to investigate me and take 
some sample bites. 

Pretty soon two young white fellows and a colored 
boy came loafing along to the station and started a 
game of "craps." One of the whites played against 
the colored boy, and the third fellow looked on. The 
players knelt on the platform opposite each other, and 
the game continued until the unlucky colored boy had 
lost all his money, five or ten cents at a bet. The game 
was played with two dice, which each player would in 
turn shake in his hand and then give a little throw 
along the planking. Every throw was accompanied by 
a half-articulate exclamation and a snap of the fingers. 
The thrower lost or won according to the number of 
dots that turned up on the dice. 

All around the station grew weeds, grass, and low 
shrubs, except for an acre or so that had been cleared 



20 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and was used for stacking moss. This moss draped 
the forest everywhere with its gray, pendent masses, 
and the gathering of it was the principal industry in 
this particular region. When prepared for market it 
makes a very good substitute for horsehair to put in 
mattresses and in sofas and other upholstering. Some- 
times the gatherers go in a boat and pull the moss from 
the trees beside the waterways. Others pick it oflF 
fallen trees or from the ground, where it has been strewn 
by the winds. How^ever, the commonest method is to 
resort to the forest, put on climbing spurs, and go up in 
the trees to gather it. Two hundred pounds is a fair 
yield for a tree, but some of the big oaks have half a ton 
or more on them. A good w^orker w^ill easily secure five 
hundred pounds in a day, for which he \vill be paid two 
dollars. 

The main substance of the moss is like a coarse 
leathery thread, but this is encumbered with a fuzzy 
outer covering and numerous narrow leaflets which 
must be gotten rid of, and the stems are full of sap. 
Those w^ho gather moss in a small way soak it in some 
swamp hole to remove the leaves and cuticle and then 
hang it on a fence to dry. But in the clearing adjoining 
the station it was heaped in great square flat piles fully 
fifteen feet across and three feet high. The piles were 
kept thoroughly wet down for about a month, and after- 
ward the moss was dried on some wire fencing erected 
for the purpose. Lastly it was baled and shipped. 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 21 

These details were imparted to me by a tall lean- 
visaged man named Dakin. I had gone from the station 
to look at the moss piles and found Dakin sitting 
on the edge of one of the heaps smoking his pipe. He 
was the chief citizen of the region — the agent of a vast 
estate covering twelve square miles which was owned by 
some one over in France. Formerly a part of the estate 
had been cultivated as a sugar plantation, and this was 
populous with slaves and quite thriving, but since the 
war no crops had been raised and the old fields have 
degenerated into their original wild jungle and morass. 
There are hardly a score of families on the whole tract 
now, and it only returns about enough income to pay 
the taxes. 

The rental for each of the families who live on it is 
twenty-five dollars a year. That sum gives a cabin 
home, a garden patch, and the privilege of free firewood, 
and of fishing, trapping, picking moss, etc. If a house- 
hold comes to the estate and builds its own cabin no 
rent is charged for the first year. The value of the 
house is thus appraised at twenty-five dollars. Really, 
the frail little shanties that serve for dwellings are worth 
no more, and the home of the agent of the estate was 
not much better than the others. It was not far away, 
across a marsh-bordered bayou, which was spanned by 
a long causeway of oak slabs and discarded railroad ties. 

Dakin invited me to go to the house with him. To 
get there was rather a delicate matter, for parts of the 



22 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

causeway were missing and other parts dislocated, as the 
result of a flood two years before. My companion had 
some thoughts of repairing it; but he said it served well 
enough to cross on foot, and he seldom needed to use it 
for animals or vehicles. When he did there was another 
bridge three miles distant that served instead. 

The bayou was rather impressive from the middle 
of the bridge. It was an almost stagnant waterway, 
with many giant, half-dead trees on its shores reaching 
aloft their gaunt, moss-draped limbs. Along its margin 
were frequent fallen trunks, and a green scum covered 
much of the surface. The water itself was dark and 
full of tadpoles. I could hear a bullfrog's deep, reso- 
nant voice at intervals from near by. I could see mud- 
turtles sunning on the snags that rose above the level 
of the water, and in spots there were water-lilies — 
angels of the swamp — chaste and beautiful amid their 
sinister and noisome surroundings. 

Dakin's house stood on slightly rising ground. It 
was an unshaded, irregular, one-story structure made 
of a single thickness of unplaned boards. Cracks were 
numerous and none of the three rooms had ceilings. 
The furniture was of the harum-scarum order and not 
abundant at that. The hens walked familiarly in and 
out, and several hounds and bird dogs were loafing 
around. 

"You have cats, too?" I suggested. 

"Yes," replied Mr. Dakin, "sometimes we have a 




Thk L'ai'] 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 23 

dozen, and again not any. Depends on what kind of 
a humor I get in. They ain't much good for contendin' 
with such rats as we have hyar. Why, some of our 
rats are as big as raccoons and'll weigh ten pounds. 
We've got rats right in this house that have been hyar 
seven years. They make more noise nights movin' 
aroun' than a man. I bought a steel trap once and 
tried to ketch 'em; but I never got only one. After 
that they knew too much." 

We had sat down on the piazza, or "gallery," as it is 
called in the lower Mississippi valley. I had to adjust 
myself with care, partly because my chair was rickety, 
partly because the floor boards were loose and much 
worn and broken. Moreover, one of the little girls of 
the family approached every little while to have a 
silent look at me, and she would step on the warped-up 
ends of the boards that ran under my chair and joggle 
me in a way that was quite discomposing. 

"I been a-threatening to build over this hyar floor," 
remarked Mr. Dakin; "but it skeers me the price they 
done been puttin' on lumber. If lumber keeps gettin' 
mo' expensive the nex' ten years the way it been a-doin* 
the las' ten, a poor man like me won't be able to buy 
no boards, even to save himself from bein' hung. We'll 
have to live in dirt houses." 

Right before the main door to the dwelling was a 
yawning hole in the gallery floor nearly a foot across. 
It was perfectly round and had charred edges. I noticed 



24 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

that every time Mr. Dakin finished speaking he would 
spit into the floor hole, and he did this with a precision 
that reflected great credit on his markmanship. It was 
a new kind of a spittoon to me, and I asked how the 
hole came there. 

"Well, I'll tell you," said Mr. Dakin, ejecting a spirt 
of saliva through the subject of his remarks. "We 
fixed up a mosquito smudge in a tin pail one evenin' and 
set it there front o' the door, and the fire burned through 
the bottom o' the pail and through the floor, too. We 
discovered what was goin' on jus' in time to save the 
whole house from burnin' up." 

One of the crap players I had seen at the station had 
joined us and lounged down on a bench that was on the 
gallery. "This'd be the fines' country thar is if 'twa'n't 
for the mosquitoes," he affirmed; "but thar'd be so 
many people flock in hyar they'd spoil the huntin' an' 
fishin'." 

"Yes, Jake, you done spoke the truth for once," 
said Mr. Dakin. "There'd be a man to every fish, if 
mosquitoes wa'n't so bad. Why," he added, turning 
to me, "we have mosquitoes hyar all the year round. 
Even in winter, when hit's freezin' outside, you c'n 
build up a good hot fire in the house and they'll come 
out from somewhar and bite you." 

"I've known it to snow," said Jake, "and then jus* 
let the sun shine half a day, to melt it off^, and the 
mosquitoes'd eat you up. They're worst though in 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 25 

August when the weather is hottest. You can't work 
without gloves, then, and you got to put your coat on 
and tie up your head and years." 

"Did you ever notice how swift they can fly?" 
asked Mr. Dakin. ''They c'n go faster'n a railway 
train. I've sat in the cyars with the winder open and 
seen a mosquito racin' with the train and tryin' his 
darndest to git me; and he'd gain a little and a little 
mo', and then in he'd come right on to my hands or 

face." 

"One thing I don't understand is why they bite night 
and day both," observed Jake. "Hit seem like they 
had ought to rest one time or the other." 

"A rag smoke'U make 'em hop," said Mr. Dakin. 
"You fill up your room good with smoke and out they 
go lively." 

The house and garden were hemmed in by a high 
paling fence of such rude strength that the premises 
looked as if they were palisaded against marauding 
enemies. Within the enclosure were various small fig, 
pomegranate, and other fruit trees, and on the fence 
grew several grapevines. " Them vines are scupernons," 
Mr. Dakin said. "They're a wild grape, but you culti- 
vate 'em — and gee whiz ! the bunches grow big as 
your head. The blossoms are jus' comin' out now, 
but the vines'll be plumb full of grapes later. We'll git 
all we want to eat, and the chickens'll pick the rest." 

"That flood we had two years ago killed a good many 



26 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

things which would be comin' on and lookin' pretty 
now," said Jake. "You see it was salt water. The 
gulf is a hundred miles away; but a heavy southeast 
gale raises it right up all along our coast. It's been 
four feet over this place a'ready and has set back mighty 
nigh sixty miles farther." 

"This is a great country for crops," said Mr. Dakin. 
"You c'n raise anything hyar. You shore can." 

"You can't raise watermelons," objected Jake. 

"/ can," declared Mr. Dakin, "and so could others 
if they'd only tend to 'em, but the folks hyar are too 
lazy." 

"Well, you can't raise sweet potatoes," said Jake. 

"Yes, I can too," said Mr. Dakin. 

" But they don't grow big as your finger." 

"Huh! what are you talkin' about.'"' Mr. Dakin 
retorted. "I never did see better potatoes than mine 
anywhar. I do my planting early. The trouble with 
the rest of you is that you don't plant till September. 
Common sense would tell a man he couldn't get potatoes 
in two weeks. Yes, sir ! you c'n raise good crops hyar, 
and your cattle'll pretty near take care of themselves. 
I don't cut any hay. I buy oats some for my horses in 
the winter, but the cows feed on the wild canes. We 
have a cold spell now and then, and we feel it because 
we ain't used to it; but the cold never lasts long. We 
git only two or three days freeze at a time, and ice never 
forms thick enough to bear your weight. The leaves 




Dragging an Allujator from its Hole 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 27 

fall the last of October and they begin to come again 
in February." 

"I see one o' your cattle yesterday goin' up the road 
just a bustin' it," said Jake. 

"They c'n run like deer if anything's the matter," 
was Mr. Dakin's response. "They're wild cattle and 
they used to be all over the swamps hyar and didn't 
belong to nobody. Finally I went and chased aroun' 
and caught 'em. I got twenty-three. If they hadn't 
'a' been killed off by hunters there'd been a thousand. 
Them cattle are jus' suited to this country. They c'n 
go anywhar. You take an ordinary cow and she would 
soon get stuck in the mud hyar, and that would be the 
end of her. Such a cow wouldn't last in this country 
as long as a snowball in hell. When a cow o' mine 
is crossin' a bayou and gets tired, she stops and rests, 
or if she's in mud, she'll lay right down. After a while 
she goes on, and she'll rest and go by spells till she gits 
to solid ground. Now, an ordinary cow, when she finds 
she's beginnin' to be stuck, makes a few big lunges that 
sink her in so deep she never can get out. 

"Thar was a German hyar from New Orleans a while 
ago. He wanted to know everything, and he kep' 
a-askin' questions the whole time. He was white as a 
lily when he come out hyar, but in four days he was 
brown as I am. To them that's acquainted with things 
in this country he acted crazy; but he wa'n't — he was 
jus* green and hadn't seen nothin'. Why the fool would 



28 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

ketch a rattlesnake in his hands if you didn't look out 
for him. I had my cattle fenced in hyar one day, and 
I happened to speak of their bein' wild. The Dutch- 
man got excited right off. He took his dern little old 
thing — his snap-shot picture machine, you know — and 
he'd have jumped right in whar the cattle were if I 
hadn't grabbed him by the coat-tails. Those cattle 
wouldn't 'a' let God git in amongst 'em. 

"It's funny, ain't it, the things people'll say and do 
when they're in country that's new to 'em. Not long 
ago I was at the station when the train come in and I see 
a little girl and her father at a car window, and she 
pointed to some of the trees with the moss on 'em and she 
said, 'Oh, papa, papa, these trees have got whiskers ! '" 

Presently Mrs. Dakin came to the door and an- 
nounced dinner. She looked pensive and worn — as 
if the drudgery and narrowness of her life had quenched 
all joy. 

"Come, Colonel," said my host to me as he rose, 
"have something to eat with us." 

To address a stranger as if he were an army officer 
is a compliment. In Louisiana I was often accosted 
by the military title he gave me; but in other parts 
of the South I have never risen higher than "captain." 

Our dinner was served in the kitchen next the stove. 
The room was dismally barren, and it was hot and full 
of flies. "Make yourself at home," said Mr. Dakin, 
cordially, pushing a chair into place for me. 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 29 

I looked at the chair rather doubtfully, for the 
woven cane of the seat was entirely gone. However, I 
contrived to sit on the edge, and was comforted by the 
fact that the chair on my right was in the same con- 
dition. To my left Jake was established on a grocery 
box. The table ware was scanty, and my knife was 
clumsily short because half the blade was gone. We all 
helped ourselves to the pork and beans, the beets, sweet 
potatoes, corn bread, rice, and coffee. The food was 
not especially appetizing, but it was eatable. 

We were soon back on the gallery, and I asked where 
the local inhabitants went to church. 

"They don't go anywhar," was Mr. Dakin's reply, 
"except a few of the niggers, who go to the next village 
four or five miles west. Some o' these niggers got so 
much o' this hyar church religion they won't play craps." 

"A nigger is a funny animal," remarked Jake. 

"He sure is !" continued Mr. Dakin. "Now do you 
actually believe a nigger is human ^ I know he ain't. 
He originates from a monkey or a baboon. I done been 
in the museums and looked at skeletons, and I can't 
see any difference between a nigger's skeleton and a 
gorilla's, only that the gorilla has got tushes. Another 
thing — did you ever know of an honest nigger } I 
don't say they're all dishonest. About one in seven 
hundred is all right; but even that one you ain't sure 
of. He may be honest for ninety-nine years and then 
steal if he gets a rael good chance." 



3© Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"They steal," said Jake, "but that ain't a circum- 
stance to their laziness. If you want a nigger to work, 
always keep him broke. If he's got six dollars and a 
good suit of clothes and a pretty good hat, he thinks it's 
an insult to be asked to work." 

About this time a visitor arrived. He was a short, 
stout, jovial man who had a whiskey bottle with him 
that he at once passed around. Mr. Dakin addressed 
him as "Babe," and asked him if he had eaten dinner. 

"No, and I don't want none," replied Babe. 

"Well, you ain't a-goin' away from hyar till you git 
somethin' to eat," affirmed Mr. Dakin. "Myra," he 
called to his wife, " hyar's Babe 'most starved to death ; " 
and Mrs. Dakin began dinner preparations again. 

Later in the afternoon there came a second visitor — 
an old man carrying a string of fish he had caught. He 
sat down on a plough that was on the gallery with 
various other farm tools, and said, "I was in a boat up 
whar the bayou jines the lake and I see somethin' 
movin' in the water that long" — holding his hands 
about a yard apart. 

"What was it V inquired Mr. Dakin. 

"I don't know." 

"Didn't it have any eyes or years or nose .^" persisted 
Mr. Dakin. 

"I don't know whether it did or not." 

"When did you see it.'"' 

"'Bout a hour ago." 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 31 

"Then you ain't clean forgot in that time how it 
looked. What species of animal was it ?" 

"I done tol' you a hundred times I don't know." 
"Might 'a' been a rhinoceros," suggested Babe. 
"Like enough hit was jus' a sucker or a minnow," 
scoffed Mr. Dakin. 

"I reckon hit was a young whale," said Jake. 

"I'll take my pole an' whale you side o' the head if 

you say any more," exclaimed the fisherman. "I see 

the thing comin' with its big mouth wide open, and I 

' tells myself, 'It's time for me to dig out.' I didn't stop 

to learn what kind of a animal it was." 
I Jake had taken his dice out of his pocket and was 

I tossing them thoughtfully along the bench on which 
I he was sitting. The fisherman noted what he was 
I about and offered to "shoot craps" with him, but 
^ dickered for some advantage that Jake would not 
i allow. "Let's have a look at your dice, Jake," said 
the fisherman at length. 

"Them have been lucky dice for me," remarked 
their owner as he passed them over, "though the first 
night I ever had 'em I lost good and deep; but in the 
next month I made that up and was forty dollars to the 
good." 

"Are they crooked?" asked the fisherman. 
"No, they're as honest dice as ever was made." 
"Jake," said the fisherman, "if you don't want to 
roll dice with me I'll make ye a bet. I'll bet one dollar 



32 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

to four bits that eleven and eleven are twenty-two and 
ten and ten are twenty too." 

By four bits he meant fifty cents — a bit being an 
old-time coin v^orth about twelve and a half cents. 
The company discussed the proposition and twisted 
and turned it for some time. They affirmed very 
decidedly that ten and ten were not twenty-two, but no 
one would take the bet for fear there was some catch 
in it. 

Then the fisherman said he would bet at similar 
odds that no person present could put his left shoe on 
first, and he pulled out his money and wanted me to 
hold the stakes. However, the others were wary, and 
after fruitlessly urging them to show their courage, he 
explained his ambiguous proposals. 

Time sped along, and the afternoon shadows length- 
ened, and by and by I started for the station. On the 
way I stopped to look into a small enclosure on the 
Dakin premises which contained a tiny pond. Several 
glossy wild dut cs were afloat on the muddy water. 
They had been captured when wounded, and now their 
wings were clipped. Jake pointed out two of them 
which he said were poodledoos, but he had no names 
for the others. 

Adjoining this enclosure was a pen built around a 
mudhole, and there I could see numbers of young 
alligators half embedded in the reek. It seemed Jake 
was an alligator hunter, and he had caught that year 




A Shot at a Deer 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 33 

fully two hundred little fellows and twenty-five big 
ones. Anything over two feet long he called big. 
There was a ready sale for them in New Orleans to 
ship to zoos and to whoever had a fancy for owning one 
of these grotesque quadrupeds. Jake had his largest 
specimen imprisoned in his home hut, and he led the 
way to the two-room shanty where he had his bachelor 
quarters, and pulled forth a scaly monster with its 
jaws muzzled and its feet tied above its back. I was 
careful not to get very near the creature. It was help- 
less enough, but it could still give vicious lunges with 
its big tail. 

Jake did not always get the alligators alive. When 
he killed one of any size he skinned it and cured the 
hide. He cooked the flesh to feed the dogs, though he 
often fried a portion of the tail for his own use. It 
tasted like fish, he said, and was very good eating. 

When we went over to the station shed we found the 
picnickers returning, and some had lain down in the 
shadow of the building, and some were prowling around 
in the weeds looking for blackberries; but most were 
in the station playing craps or looking on. Nickels, 
dimes, and quarters were constantly changing hands, 
and there was rough and sulphurous language, the 
snap of fingers, and the light clatter of the dice as they 
were shaken up and rolled along the floor. It was a 
promiscuous crowd of old and young, negroes and 
whites, all intently interested and eager. Then the 



34 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

train was announced to be approaching, and there was 
a hasty finish of games and a pocketing of coin and 
dice, and the company gathered on the platform. 

Before I left I made arrangements with Jake to go 
on an alligator hunt, and early one morning later in the 
week I again was at the little station amid the swamp- 
lands. Jake and several negro men were sitting on 
the heaps of curing moss. The men were moss-pickers. 
They were ready for work and were only waiting for 
the spirit to move; but they would perhaps loaf there 
two or three hours to learn what passers-by and those 
who joined their group had to say. The gathering 
served all the purposes of a daily newspaper as far as 
local interests were concerned. 

Jake had the toothache. " Yo' better try cold iron," 
advised one of the negroes. 

"Yes," said another, "cold iron de bes' thing for 
yo'. Hit certain will stop de toothache." 

But there was no dentist at hand, and Jake presently 
rose to go with me. He said the trip would be too 
boggy for my clothing, and he took me to his hut and 
furnished me with some of his garments, including a 
great heavy pair of shoes. For his own footwear he 
decided to put on rubber boots. He found a pair and 
discarded them because they lacked holes and the heat 
would make them unendurable. Another pair, how- 
ever, was exhumed w^hich were satisfactorily leaky, and 
he pulled them on. Then he adjusted a bag over one 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 35 

shoulder, stuck a hatchet into his belt, and took in his 
hand a slender iron rod, six feet long and hooked at 
one end. 

Off we went along "the dirt road," intending to go 
to a hunting-camp Jake had seven miles off in the wilds. 
The road was a narrow trail of single cart width, with 
streaks of grass and weeds growing between the wheel 
tracks, and it was hedged in on either side by the 
rankest kind of a jungle, in which canes were predomi- 
nant. This was the main highway of the region, but 
it ran off into nowhere, and grew more and more grassy 
as we advanced. Sometimes we walked in the shade 
of lofty, moss-hung trees, — live-oaks, gums, magnolias, 
and cypress, — sometimes through blasted tracts dev- 
astated by recent fires. Ordinarily these fires only 
burn till nightfall, and then are extinguished by the 
heavy dew. The woods were vocal with bird songs, 
and buzzards were soaring high in the ether. 

"Hit's tolerable hot," remarked Jake; and so it was, 
for the sun shone clear and burning, and the breeze 
that fluttered the treetop leafage did not penetrate into 
the forest depths of cane and briers and palmetto scrub. 
The heat was not our only discomfort. Hordes of 
ravenous mosquitoes assailed us and could not be kept 
from our hands and faces except by persistent fighting. 
The creatures lit on our clothing and clung to it and 
prodded with their poisoned lances in savage eagerness. 

After a few miles we turned off from the dirt road 



36 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

into an indistinct path, and waded through mucky low- 
lands to a dark silent bayou, which we crossed on some 
half-sunken logs embedded in the mud of its shallows. 
On we went, following the irregular windings of the 
path, long-legged Jake striding on ahead and I coming 
after, taking care to step along briskly enough not to be 
left behind in that lonely wilderness. 

Presently Jake stopped and cut a cane a dozen or 
fifteen feet long that he intended to use as a prod when 
we came to the marshes where the alligators lurked. 
A little farther on the trees and woody undergrowth 
disappeared, and we had before us the marshlands, 
spreading away like a green endless sea to the horizon, 
an unbroken level of saw-grass, flags, and prairie canes. 
Last year's growths had all been burned off during the 
winter except for a few scattering stalks, tall and with- 
ered and rustling in the wind. The rank new shoots 
were waist high and grew in tufts from the charred 
stubs. These stubs were a foot tall and the size of 
one's fist, and they were set in mud that varied from a 
watery thinness to a stiff* consistency. What sweaty, 
weary work it was pushing through that monotony of 
mud and coarse grasses ! It made the breath come 
hard and fast and the muscles ache. 

We went perhaps a mile, and then Jake said I might 
wait where I was until he had done a little investigating. 
I was glad enough to stop, and I stood still and looked 
around. Far behind me was the forest whence we had 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 37 

come, and all about was the vast waste of marsh which 
would have seemed utterly deserted if I had not now 
and then heard the lonely cries of waterfowl. Jake had 
disappeared from sight, but I occasionally saw the long 
cane pole he carried reaching up above the marsh 
growths. When that too was gone from view, I was a 
trifle uneasy in the forsaken and unfamiHar void, and 
I questioned whether, left to my own resources, I could 
find my way back by the devious and scarcely dis- 
tinguishable path through the barbaric swamps. 

By and by I saw smoke curling up from the marsh 
grass. Jake had set it on fire to clear a path and make 
walking and seeing easier. I hoped the fire would not 
burn in my direction; for if it forged ahead with any 
rapidity I could not have gotten away from it. Any- 
thing more than a snail's pace was impossible in such 
a sticky mud and resisting stubble. But I need not 
have feared. So little of the marsh growths was dry 
enough for the flames to Hck up that the fire made slight 
headway. 

Finally I heard a distant shout. Jake had got on the 
trail of an alligator, and I plodded in his direction. 
The soil became more watery and I sank half leg deep. 
Several times I had to call to Jake before I came in 
sight of him, to make sure of his whereabouts. He 
was on the borders of a narrow channel of brown 
water that he spoke of as an "alligator slue," and which 
the alligator used as a highway when in search of food. 



38 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The creature had a hole just aside from the slue, and 
Jake ran his pole half its length into the muddy cavity 
to let the inmate know that something was going on. 
Then he bent over, and holding his nose between his 
thumb and finger grunted with a peculiar guttural in 
imitation of the voice of an old alligator. He cautioned 
me to keep perfectly still. Near by was a muskrat's 
home — a heap of dry reeds. A water moccasin came 
from somewhere and stopped, startled at the sight of us, 
and then slid hastily away. We roused a marsh hen 
which uttered a harsh cry and fluttered up into view 
and with frightened wings sped to safety. 

Jake watched the water intently, repeating the grunt- 
ing at intervals. There was a slight movement at the 
surface, and he made a sudden grab and out came a 
little alligator a foot long. He grunted again and 
secured another little fellow, and pretty soon a third. 
Then the ground quivered faintly and the long pole 
trembled. 

"That's the big one — the mother," whispered Jake, 
and resumed his vocal gymnastics. 

In a few moments there was just the least ruffling of 
the water, and before I could discern the cause Jake 
had plunged in both hands and was pulling forth a 
seven-foot monster firmly gripped by the jaws. But it was 
bedaubed with clay so that it was very slippery, and 
when it gave a sudden twist and turn Jake lost his hold. 
The beast rolled over into the slue, and with a vigorous 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 39 

splash of its muscular tail sent the water flying over us 
and in a twinkling was back in its hole. 

Jake was mad, and he made some remarks more 
vigorous than elegant and began thrusting his iron rod 
into the soil. He could prod the creature out, he said, 
but as that was likely to injure it he soon decided to try 
the persuasion of his voice once more. 

This time he imitated the cries of the little alligators. 
The monster responded to this appeal to its maternal 
instinct, and Jake caught it in the same way as before, 
drew it out on the mud, and jumped on its back. Then 
he took a cord from his pocket, tied its mouth fast shut 
and fastened its legs over its back and had the beast at 
his mercy. It was the personification of ugliness, yet 
I could not help feeling sorry for it and sorrier still for 
the little alligators, with their soft bodies and pathetic 
eyes. In the unmitigated loneliness of the bog, the 
pleasures of life were not very apparent. Nevertheless, 
I suppose these creatures are in their nature suited to 
the environment. Jake said the marshes were pretty 
thickly populated with them, and that there were at 
least forty big ones in a lagoon not far from where we 
were. 

My comrade had put the little alligators into the sack 
he had brought, and he now fastened it around himself 
and hoisted the big beast on his shoulder. Then he 
staggered away through the mire and shallow pools and 
slues toward the comparatively firm ground of the 



40 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

swamp — and what a relief it was when we escaped 
from the dismal barren of the marshlands ! 

Our next objective was Jake's camp, about a mile 
distant; for there we could get drinking water, and we 
were very thirsty, Jake said he did not like to drink 
from the swamp pools and bayous, because the water 
was apt to make one sick — "though I have drank it 
a many a time," he added, "when I couldn't get any 
other handy." 

We did not carry the alligators to the camp. Jake 
tied a cord around the body of the big one and then 
doubled the creature up and put it in the bag, the 
mouth of which he tied up securely. Afterward he 
fastened the cord that was attached to the alligator's 
body to a stump. He said these precautions were 
necessary because it would perhaps flop around and 
try to get loose, and if it succeeded he would have 
serious trouble finding it again. "Hit can go a whole 
lot faster'n I can walk," he declared. 

My shoes were full of muddy water that churned 
about at every step, and my feet were chafed and 
blistered, so that when we started for the camp I could 
not muster up much speed. A vague path led thither 
through tangles of buck brush and palmetto scrub. 
Often we had to step over fallen tree trunks or make a 
detour around the larger ones. The region had been 
heavily wooded a few years before, but in a dry spell 
a fire had burned for twenty days among the great 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 41 

oaks, cedars, and magnolias, and few escaped. Yet 
many dead giants still stood, and the rotting forms of 
numerous others strewed the undergrowth. By and by 
we came to a dark stream which we had to wade. It 
was knee deep, and my shoes became more water-logged 
than ever. I was so weary I could hardly drag myself 
along, and the swarming mosquitoes never ceased per- 
secuting us. 

The camp was in a pretty spot on the borders of a 
bayou that was alive with fish constantly making little 
leaps above the surface. Here stood a hut built of 
rough boards split out of cypress, and here Jake and 
Mr. Dakin lived most of the time in the winter, hunting 
and trapping. "We got a right smart of game hyar 
last winter," said Jake. "We had eighty steel traps 
set, and we caught five otter that fetched us from six to 
twelve dollars a skin ; and we caught coon and mink 
and wildcats and all sorts of varmints." 

A trough under the eaves of the hut ran the roof 
water into a barrel, and to this receptacle Jake resorted 
with a rusty tin can and drank with evident relish. "Is 
it good ?" I inquired. 

"You bet it is !" was his response, and I drank, too, 
but not with his enthusiasm; for the surface was 
strewn with leaves and mosquitoes, and both in color 
and taste the water was far from perfect. 

We loafed around for a half hour, ate a lunch we had 
brought, and then started on the long tramp homeward. 



42 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

We picked up the aUigators on the way and kept 
on steadily for four or five miles when Jake put down 
his load remarking, "I reckon I've packed that alligator 
far enough. He'll weigh nigh a hundred pounds, and 
he's gin me all I want to do for one day. I'll come up 
hyar and get him to-morrow." 

So he thrust it into the sack and tied sack and all 
to a small tree. The little alligators he wrapped up 
in his handkerchief to carry along^; but before we 
started he pulled off his boots and took a look inside. 
"My feet are on fire," he said. "Hit's jus' a-smokin' 
in thar," and he heaved the boots over into the brush 
where the alligator was, and walked the rest of the 
way in his stocking feet. 

About two miles from the hamlet we came to an 
empty wagon in the road with three stalwart negro moss- 
pickers standing around it. "What are you all doing .?" 
asked Jake. 

"Our horse done run away home," was the reply. 

They had unhitched it to let it feed, and it had taken 
advantage of the opportunity to depart. They could 
have worked the remainder of the afternoon loading the 
wagon, but they were apparently glad of any excuse to 
quit, and they each lit a cigarette and went on with us 
single file through the forest jungle. 

We arrived at Dakin's stiff and lame, and sat down 
on his gallery to revive. Dakin soon came in from a 
field where he had been planting corn, and began spit- 



Mosquitoes and Alligators 43 

ting through the hole in the gallery floor and asking 
what luck we had had. After we finished relating our 
adventures, Jake, who had been watching the approach 
of a boy on the broken causeway that spanned the 
bayou, said, "Hyar comes Rob toting a snappin* 
turtle. That boy'll waste a whole day to ketch one o' 
them, when he had ought to be workin'; though he 
ain't strong enough for his work to amount to much. 
He got a laig about as big as a good-sized crane's." 

Rob soon came in at the gate. He eyed Jake and 
said, "Look like you half dead." 

"Half dead!" exclaimed Jake. "I could jump up 
and lick ten such as you this minute." 

Rob unloosed the big, horny turtle on the gallery 
and amused himself by poking it with a stick, at which 
it would snap its jaws with savage courage. Presently 
a colored woman came to the house on some errand and 
stopped to observe the turtle rear and bite. "What'll 
you give for him.''" asked Mr. Dakin. "You need 
some fresh meat at your house, don't you V* 

She thought the turtle was worth fifty cents, and Mr. 
Dakin had Rob secure it so she could carry it. This 
the boy did by letting it close its jaws on a cord which 
he passed around under the rim of the shell and knotted 
near the tail. It was now well muzzled, and the woman 
went off with it. 

The people on the swamplands plainly lived close to 
nature, but it was a closeness that was half barbaric. 



44 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Their dwellings were primitively rough, their farming 
and gardening of the crudest sort, their discomforts 
many, their pleasures few. They looked to the forest 
and waters to support them and to supply much of their 
daily food. Hunting, trapping, and fishing were their 
chief interests, and they were always on the watch to 
waylay the wild denizens of the boggy jungles. To me 
as an onlooker all this was quite fascinating, yet sharing 
the life even for a short period had serious drawbacks. 
The mosquitoes had blotched my hands and face with 
poisoned swellings, the numerous wood-ticks and red- 
bugs I had encountered had left their marks, and it was 
many days before my blistered feet healed. I could not 
help feeling that I had hitherto never half realized the 
comforts of civilization. 

Note. —Any very intimate acquaintance with the moss-pickers and 
alligator-hunters entails some hardships. Food, shelter, and travelling 
are all poor, and you never know just what unusual discomforts you 
may encounter. The country where these primitive people live is, 
however, quite accessible from New Orleans, and one can go out on 
the train, stay a few hours, and then return. Even then the enterprise 
is more picturesque than agreeable, unless you have a fancy for rough- 
ing it. 



Ill 

THE LAND OF RICE AND SUGAR 

IN the southern Mississippi valley, on the low 
levels behind the protecting upheaval of the 
levees, rice and sugar are the staple crops. You 
can travel for scores of miles and encounter little else 
than the broad sugar and rice fields, and a succession 
of populous farm villages. 

I found the aspect of the country unusually interesting 
and attractive. The soil looked immensely fertile and 
well-tilled, the homes were suggestive of thrift and 
prosperity, and the wide, clear expanses under cultiva- 
tion intermitted very prettily with the white villages 
snuggling among the tall trees. It is not to be inferred 
that white buildings were universal, but they were 
predominant, and while paint was beyond the means of 
the humbler folk, they could secure the prevailing tint 
cheaply by whitewashing. In fact, whitewash is quite 
an institution in the rice and sugar country. It is used 
very freely on barns and sheds, negro cabins, hen-coops, 
and fences. The man who is particular about appear- 
ances and wishes to keep his premises in ideal shape, 
whitewashes everything in sight once a year. 

45 



46 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The fences are very substantial, and form such stout 
bulwarks about the houses, dooryards, and fields that 
they make the villages look almost feudal. Occasionally 
a fence is of wire, but posts and rails, or pickets, are 
more usual; and unless a fence is "horse-high, bull- 
strong, and pig-tight," it does not meet with general 
approval. 

The large houses sit well back from the road, and 
with the fine trees about them they -convey a charm- 
ing sense of placidity and hospitable ease. A great gate 
gives entrance to the grounds, and sometimes a stile 
climbs over the lofty fence beside the gate. The stile 
is especially for the children, who would have difficulty 
in handling the heavy gate. 

The village of Nazaire, where I stopped for several 
days, W(LS like most of the river hamlets — an odd 
mixture of fine residences, shed-like country stores, and 
negro cabins. The negroes lived mostly on the side 
lanes or behind the big houses, where their hovels were 
not conspicuous. Many of the cabins were double- 
tenement structures, consisting for each tenant of a 
room for general use, including sleeping, and a shed- 
room for a kitchen. Neither apartment was large 
enough to swing a cat in. 

One cabin that particularly interested me had walls 
of "mud." Such construction was formerly common. 
The wooden framework of the house was first put up 
and slats nailed to it. Then the space between the 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 47 

studding was filled in with a mixture of clay and 
Spanish moss. Where the walls were exposed to the 
weather they were boarded over; but under the gallery 
that ran across the front and in the rooms, the brown 
dried mud was in view. The people who lived in this 
cabin said it was warmer in winter and cooler in sum- 
mer than a wooden house. They seemed satisfied, 
though the dwelling looked ready to go to pieces. Like 
many other negro cabins, the window openings were 
merely closed with board shutters. There was not a 
pane of glass in the building. Of course the rooms 
were dark as a pocket when the shutters and doors were 
closed, and I was curious to learn what the inmates did 
in cold weather. 

"We has a fire den, sah," said the turbaned old 
woman whom I questioned; "and we keeps a door or 
a window open on de side what de wind doan't blow 
from. Oh, yas, sah." 

This house was built since the war; but across the 
road was an ante-bellum wooden cabin still farther 
gone in decay. Many of the old-time cabins had dirt 
floors in their kitchens, and that was the original state 
of the floor in this ancient wooden cabin ; but latterly 
the dirt had been loosely overlaid with boards. 

Rudeness and frailty were not confined to the dwell- 
ings of the negroes. The house where I lodged, for 
instance, while it was very neat and pleasant, was of the 
thinnest and cheapest construction. The floors teetered 



48 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and made the furniture shake with every footstep. But 
there was evidence of an aspiration for the beautiful; 
else why was the interior woodwork painted that vivid 
green ? and why were there those various pictures hung 
on the walls ? Art was most lavished on the best room, 
where were a chromo painting in a heavy gilt frame, 
and a framed portrait of Jefferson Davis. Scarcely less 
promment were two large colored prints, one advertis- 
ing a Milwaukee beer, the second a brand of whiskey. 

Nearly all the family were away every evening attend- 
mg a series of meetings at a church seven miles distant. 
Practically all the churches of the whites in that portion 
of Louisiana were Catholic, and the services were in 
French, which was the common language of the people. 
With few exceptions they could speak English, too, 
though accent and manner were slightly foreign. 

On the opposite side of the road from my lodging- 
place was a great sugar-cane field. I often lingered 
m this and the other fields of the region watching the 
workers. The cane had attained a height of about a 
foot, and grew in rows of straggling scrawny stalks, 
resembling corn, but not nearly as handsome. At 
frequent intervals there were grass-grown ditches for 
dramage. These did not, however, conduct the surplus 
water to the river as one would be apt to expect, but 
carried it to the low swamps and lakes in the other 
direction. Ditches were a feature of the entire country. 
They networked the cultivated fields, the grasslands, 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 49 

town-lots, and home premises, and there was a deep 
drainage ditch on each side of the highways. 

The ditching was especially careful and elaborate in 
the rice fields, most of which were now flooded and get- 
ting green with the growing grain. The rice ditches had 
numerous dams; and slight ridges were thrown up here 
and there so that the earth was everywhere kept a little 
under water. This water came from the Mississippi, 
and during flood-time flowed in of itself; but later, when 
the river had fallen, it would be pumped in. There were 
big pipes arching over the levee and pumping engines 
at frequent intervals along the waterside. 

The sugar-cane was getting its first hoeing, and every 
field had its straggling group of workers. Much of the 
time an overseer was among the workers, directing and 
urging. He rode on horseback, and during labor hours 
was rarely out of the saddle from morn till night. His 
sceptre of authority is a riding-whip or a stout stick. 
This is primarily for the horse, but it may be applied 
pretty freely to the negroes on occasion. "I don't 
much believe in that," said one overseer to me. "Of 
course, the niggers, they mo' contrary sometimes than 
other times ; but yo' don't often need to hit 'em. They 
the best plantation help in the world, most willing and 
most easily managed. Yo' find fault with a white man 
workin' for yo', and he get mad. You can order a 
nigger just as yo' please, and even if yo' beat him he 
stays by his work. But yo' treat a white man like that. 



50 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

no matter if he know he in the wrong, he bound to 
quit. 

It was hard and sweaty work for the laborers cutting 
the weeds and stirring the ground with their great 
clumsy hoes; and from time to time a water cart made 
the rounds. The cart only attempted to follow the 
plantation roads, and thence some lad lugged the water 
in a pail down the field and went from one worker to 
another. The help included men,- women, and boys. 
The men were paid seventy to seventy-five cents a day, 
the women fifty to sixty cents, and the boys thirty 
cents. These youngsters were put two on a row, and 
then were expected to keep up with the rest. 

I explored all the neighborhood and visited several 
of the nearer villages. In clear weather it was too hot 
for comfort walking anywhere except on the levee. 
There one got the benefit of the cold air from the water, 
and of any breeze that happened to be blowing; and it 
was a delight to watch the cloud-shadows darkling 
across the broad and lonely stream, and to look over to 
the opposite bank, dim and blue in the distance, with 
its irregular tree-masses and its houses hidden by the 
levee, all but the roofs. The muddy current hurrying 
on its seaward journey always carried with it an endless 
procession of driftwood, the refuse and wreckage of 
thousands of miles of streams above. Most of it con- 
sisted of bruised and shattered forest trees washed out 
of the banks, roots and all. A good deal was driven in 




o 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 5 1 

to the shore by the wind, and the river margin was much 
bestrewn. 

It is customary to graze cattle and horses on the levee 
and any land that may lie outside; but when the water 
begins to get dangerously high the grazing is stopped, 
lest the turf be injured and the waves seek out the weak- 
ness and make a crevasse. One evening, as I sat by 
the riverside on the grassy slope of the levee near the 
village, a colored woman climbed the embankment 
from the landward and stopped to look at the stream. 
"Am it a-raisin'?" she asked. 

I said I thought it was ; and after she had considered 
a moment she turned her eyes toward the clouds and 
remarked, "I reckon we gwine to git some rain, and 
I don't want to be cotched in it. I done got nigh three 
mile to walk to whar I live. Yo' ever seen these roads 
hyar when it been rainin' ^ Whoo-hoo ! If it rain 
fifteen minutes they so muddy yo' cain't hardly git along, 
and if it rain a whole day yo' almost up to yo' knees in 
mud. Out North, whar I was raised in Kentucky, the 
country was mo' sandy, and the rain might po' down 
hard as it please, and in half an hour after it was over 
de groun' would be dry." 

She went off muttering to herself as she hobbled 
along. Not far from where I sat a boat was moored, 
and a little darkey was pushing about in it with great 
hilarity. I was quite entertained by his antics, but 
pretty soon a sprinkle of rain sent us both in search of 



52 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

shelter. As we came away from the levee, we heard an 
uproar in a near cabin. There was an angry mother's 
voice shouting: "Yo' come when I call yo' ! " (Slap ! 
slap!) ''Yo' hear what I say!" (Slap ! slap !) 'Til 
Tarn yo' to min' me if it take all de strenk I got!" 
(Slap! slap!) 

Meanwhile a youngster was howling and begging for 
mercy and exclaiming at frequent intervals, "Oh, my 
Lord!" 

My companion ran and peeked through the fence, 
and then jumped up and down and clapped his hands 
and seemed greatly rejoiced and edified. 

A little farther on another disturbance was in prog- 
ress. Some colored boys w^ho had been playing 
marbles had gotten into a dispute, and had not suc- 
ceeded in settling their differences without fighting; 
but a scarecrow of a young woman with a good stout 
slab swooped down on them, and they all scattered. 
Now and then she made a dash at this one or 
that and told the horrible things she would do to 
them. "I'll larn yo' ! I'll knock yo' daid!" she 
declared. 

She was particularly sharp toward a boy who was her 
brother, and who hovered at a distance, alternately 
weeping and reviling. She would not relent, but 
shouted: "Yo' come out hyar in de road to fight about 
marbles ! What yo' want wid mo' marbles anyhow f 
Yo' got de chimbley at home full on 'em; an' hyar yo' 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 53 

is a-fightin' about 'em. I'll take 'em all an' frow 'em 
in de pond. Yes, I will." 

Nazaire had three schools. Two of them were for 
colored pupils, but one of these was a "pay school," 
kept in the little Methodist church by the pastor, at ten 
cents for each child per week. The free negro school 
was in a rickety cabin, with a big chimney right in the 
middle of the one room. Here sixty scholars gathered, 
and they filled the backless benches full and left very 
little open floor space. The desks that accompanied 
the benches were long movable afi'airs, with a slant on 
either side, so that two rows of children could sit at each 
desk. Underneath the desk top was a narrow shelf 
which served chiefly as a convenient repository for hats 
and sunbonnets, though chance nails driven into the 
rough whitewashed walls were also more or less utilized 
for the same purpose. Desks, benches, and teacher's 
table were of cheap boards hammered together by 
some local carpenter, and were battered and browned 
by long use, and much carved by youthful jack-knives. 
A dog lay stretched out asleep under one of the benches 
when I made the school a visit, and two or three of the 
smaller children were creeping about the floor. In the 
main, the pupils were quiet and orderly. Perhaps they 
were somewhat daunted by the stout strap which the 
middle-aged woman, who was their teacher, carried 
ready for action over her shoulder. 

The chimney had a fireplace on two sides, but the 



54 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

cabin walls were so thin and leaky the building could 
hardly have been warmed effectively. Beside the 
chimney, on the floor, was a bucket of water and a tin 
can to drink from. The teacher said the water came 
from a near well, and that it did not taste good and was 
liable to make a person sick. But I noticed the children 
drank often and copiously. The teacher herself and 
some of the girls brought water from home in bottles. 
Nearly all the children were barefoot. In most in- 
stances they had their dinners with them, and some 
walked daily from a distance of three and a half miles. 
Their books were shabby and few, and not many of the 
pupils would attain more than the bare ability to read 
and write and do simple sums in arithmetic. They 
seldom studied geography, for their parents argue — 
"What de use for dem to know about foreign parts .f* 
Dey ain' gwine travel." 

School begins each year in March and continues 
without a break for seven months. The teacher said 
the children were not very regular attendants, and that 
in the five months' vacation they forgot nearly all they 
learned. At home they hear only "Creole French," 
and that makes the task of studying their English 
school books doubly hard. 

In the middle of the morning and afternoon sessions 
the little ones were allowed to go out and play, but the 
rest were kept steadily to their tasks. This seemed a 
pretty severe requirement — three hours at a stretch in 




The Students 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 55 

that crowded room and on those backless benches, which 
were so high that none save the oldest pupils could touch 
their feet to the floor. 

The schoolhouse of the whites was the same in size 
and interior arrangement and furnishings as that of the 
blacks; but it was on the main road, and was newer, 
and in good repair. The fifteen or twenty attend- 
ants did not compare at all favorably in behavior 
with the colored children. They wriggled and twisted 
and had all sorts of circuses. They did not do much 
studying, and sometimes this one or that one would 
relapse into dreaminess and gaze out of the glassless 
window-openings to the hot sunshine and green 
fields. 

While I was at Nazaire the state election occurred, and 
the schools were closed, and the white's schoolhouse 
was used for a polling-place. A good many of the 
voters made an all-day picnic of the occasion and hov- 
ered around the schoolhouse pretty constantly. Only 
about thirty votes were cast in all, and the assemblage 
was never large. Behind one long desk sat the three 
commissioners and the clerk; but their duties did not 
necessitate continuous attention, and they sometimes 
went, one or two at a time, to other parts of the room 
or out on the gallery. Carriages and saddle-horses 
were hitched along the near fences, and the voters made 
themselves very much at home. They even sat on top 
of the school desks, and some, from force of long-gone 



^6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

boyhood habit, got out their jack-knives and whittled 
off a few sHvers. 

At the back of the room was an array of pails and 
bottles and a sugar bowl. Whenever an election 
official got thirsty or felt the need of being braced for 
his duties, he retired and took a drink of whiskey or 
claret. Also, each person as soon as he voted was 
conducted thither for a reviving glass; and some im- 
bibed from time to time afterward until they could not 
walk straight and their speech became thick and stam- 
mering. Every man had a pouch of fine-cut tobacco in 
his pocket, and at frequent intervals rolled and smoked 
a cigarette. If tobacco or wine or whiskey ran low, 
some little negro boy was called from the road and sent 
off in haste to the nearest store with money in his hand 
to buy more. 

The conclave joked and gossiped and told stories 
and talked crops endlessly. Their manner was char- 
acteristically French, and they put much intensity of 
voice and gesture into all they said. One of them gave 
a dramatic recitation, and marched up and down the 
floor and entered with as much spirit into the perform- 
ance as if he had been acting on the stage. Sometimes 
there were heated disputes over questions of politics 
and the methods of voting. Men shouted and shook 
fists and stamped in and out of the door and grew red 
in the face and told certain ones exactly what they 
thought of them. There were even those who were 



The Land of Rice and Sugar 57 

accused of the atrocious crime of being partial to the 
"niggers." "Where were you in '96 ?" demanded one 
man of another. "Ha! you never Hfted a finger then 
to put the niggers down. You would not risk your Hfe 
as I did and eleven others with me." 

I inquired what this upheaval of '96 was, and I 
learned that in the year mentioned the county had a 
colored sheriff. He was capable enough, and did his 
duty; but he was black, and it was terribly galling to 
see a "nigger" in the court-house handling white men's 
money. So the whites determined to put a stop to such 
a state of affairs, and twelve men with guns went to 
the polls where four hundred negroes were gathered. 
That was a critical moment; but the blacks did not 
offer resistance and hastened to get away. The men 
with guns were at hand all day, and saw to it that the 
election went as they wanted it to go. Since then a 
black man rarely or never comes near the polls, and 
the twelve men are proud of their record, and consider 
themselves patriots and liberators worthy of special 
distinction. 

The proceedings of election day at the schoolhouse 
culminated in a dinner supposed to be served at two in 
the afternoon; but it did not materialize until an hour 
later, when an old colored mammy, with a basket on 
her arm, made several journeys to the polling-place 
from a villa among the trees across the road. She 
came in at the rear door and spread forth a most ample 



58 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and appetizing feast of roast chicken, beef steak, pota- 
toes, rice, shrimps, cakes, and coffee. I was present as 
a guest; and though the room was barn-like, the table- 
ware scanty, and the slant-topped desks not very 
well suited to hold one's plate, yet the affable hospitality 
of the Louisiana sugar and rice planters made this din- 
ner one of the pleasantest incidents of my stay in that 
fertile region. 

Note. — Tourists who wish to see the sugar and rice country can, with 
advantage, make New Orieans their hotel residence. Go from there by 
train to some characteristic village, and then hire a team and drive about. 
Accommodations are poor in the rustic hamlets, yet not distressingly so, 
and many persons would perhaps enjoy for a short time the plain fare 
and rude quarters. The life on the big plantations is decidedly interest- 
ing, and in many ways unique. 




In the Heat of the Day 



IV 

SPRING IN MISSISSIPPI 

IT was in the late dusk of an April evening that 
I arrived at Vicksburg, and I picked out a hotel 
at random. My choice was not altogether happy. 
The building was big and gaunt, and the worse for wear, 
and the rooms were barren and battered. Yet it had 
the interest that age gives; for it dated back beyond the 
war, and its proprietor was a gray-bearded ancient who 
fought in the Confederate army. It stood on the brow 
of the steep hill that skirts the Yazoo River, and from 
my chamber window I looked down on the stream and 
the lights of the various craft that were moored along 
shore. Across the street some one had a phonograph, 
and the hoarse crackle of songs and jokes from the 
machine was pretty constant; but in the intervals I 
could hear from the lowlands the thrill of the toad's 
long-drawn gutturals. 

A half-moon was shining encircled by a great hazy 
ring. Its light revealed dimly a broad reach of watery 
landscape extending far westward. Over there some- 
where, a mile or two away, was the mighty Mississippi. 
Formerly it made a wide curve and swept past the bluff 

59 



6o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

on which the city stands; but it some years ago cut 
through a neck of land and left Vicksburg stranded 
inland. However, before the old channel had filled up, 
the Yazoo was induced to flow through it, and thus the 
place still has the benefit of the river traffic. 

In my rambles about the town I found everywhere 
much of the unexpected and picturesque. The build- 
ings cling in a compact mass to the bluff skirting the 
river, and lift one above the other xDn the precipitous 
slope in a very odd jumble. For this effect the lay of 
the ground is largely responsible; but the structures 
themselves right in the city centre often offer curious 
contrasts of the substantial and modern elbowing the 
shabby and antiquated. 

The queerest part of the city is on a big rough hill 
just beyond the business section up the river. This hill 
is nothing but clay; yet the clay is so firm it retains its 
shape even on slopes almost perpendicular. On the 
side toward the stream the hill rises in an upright wall, 
much overgrown with trees, grass, and shrubbery. Now 
and then a rude little hovel finds a clinging-place in 
some irregularity of the bluff; and there are occasional 
rough ladders and stairways that give access to the 
height. The upland is crowned by as strange a helter- 
skelter of cabins, fences, paths, and devious lanes as 
ever existed in any African jungle. Every household 
has apparently established itself at chance, and the 
sight of such an assemblage of squatters' cabins, and 



Spring in Mississippi 6i 

such a massing of suburban population as the half- 
wild slopes and hollows of this region revealed, was in 
its way quite impressive. Most of the houses were 
built of wood, but there was one rambling dwelling con- 
structed wholly of old iron rubbish, "without enough 
wood in it to make a good fire," as a neighbor explained. 
Its owner had a mania for collecting discarded metal, 
and all the vicinity of his castle was littered with heaps 
of rusty worthless wreckage. 

I stopped to speak with an old colored woman who 
was preparing to wash some clothes she had boiling in 
a kettle set on a little fire in the yard. Her poverty was 
evidently extreme, and in our chat I questioned 
whether her life in the days of slavery was not easier 
and happier than now. 

She said, "No," very emphatically; and added, "We 
was raised up jus' like cattle is, and we experienced 
hard times, mister, we shore did. I rather git along 
wid eatin' wunst a week, an' den only bread an' water, 
dan be a slave wid plenty. If you was a slave and ran 
away dey had nigger dogs to chase yo' dat'd tear 
yo' all up; but of co'se some masters was a heap 
meaner'n yuthers. Dey didn't keer to have yo' 
know nothin'. Once a black woman started to learn 
us out of a blue-back elementer [Webster's Blue- 
backed Elementary Speller], an' dey whipped her all 
night. We had to work long days den, and I never 
seen de sun rise while I was in de house. I'd be in de 



62 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

cotton fiel', and many a time Fd be wet as a rat wid 
de dew." 

She was interrupted by her husband, a gray old man, 
who came hobbling up the hill with a pail in one hand 
and a hoe which he used as a cane in the other. He had 
been a resident of the place since childhood, and was in 
the city when Grant besieged it in 1862. Presently 
he was telling of his war experiences. "Along in de win- 
ter," said he, " de Union men, dey closed in all aroun' us. 
Dey held de river up above an' down below, an' dey 
shut us off on de Ian' side, too, an' vittles begun to git 
sca'ce an' expensive. By de end er March dey was 
a-firin' der shells into de town, knockin' houses to pieces 
an' killin' folks, and ev'y fambly got itself a cave dug. 
Dis hyar clay is ve'y good for cave digging, an' dey 
hollowed out all de hillsides. Each fambly had a room 
in de clay wid props inside to keep de top from tumblin' 
down on 'em; and some made two rooms wid a door 
between. I reckon it cost as much as fifty dollars to 
dig de best caves. Dey had beds in dar, an' when- 
ever de guns begun a-bombangin' dey run to de caves. 
Sometimes dey be rouse out in de middle er de night 
an' run fo' de caves half dressed. De caves wa'n't no 
ve'y nice places. Dey too damp an' musty. 

"Supplies was all de time harder to git, till we hadn't 
no coffee, no flour, no cloth, no shoes, or no beef meat; 
and dey print de newspaper hyar on de clean side er 
wall-paper. People got to eatin' mule-meat; an' rats was 



Spring in Mississippi Sj 

killed an* skinned an' sol' fo' meat, too. Some er de 
soldiers starved to death; an' yit dis place sich a natchul 
fortress it didn't seem like de Union fellers ever git it. 
Dar v^as guns on all de town bluffs, an' v^e had one gun 
we call 'Whistling Dick,' becaze when it fire a shell dar 
always be a long screechin' soun'. Dat our bes' gun, 
an' we know it bus' a big hole in de Federal army ev'y 
time we hear it screech. 

"Well, I reckon we might 'a' pulled through if it 
hadn't been fo' de Union gunboats. We been thinkin' 
all along dey couldn't never git at us, caze we was 
boun' to knock de stuffin' out'n 'em if dey come in 
sight. But one night I happen to be out 'bout twelve 
o'clock, an' I see it lighten ; an' yit de moon was shinin' 
an' dar was no clouds or soun' er thunder. *Dis 
mighty queer,' I say, an' I run an' woke up my master. 
We went den an' look at de river, an' dar was de Northern 
gunboats wid barges er hay tied to 'em to protect 'em. 
All de firin' we could do couldn't stop 'em; an' after 
dat it didn't seem much use to hoi' out no longer. So 
de town surrender, and I jined de Union army. Yas, 
I was in de I02d dozen Massachusetts regiment under 
Lieutenant Dodge." 

On an adjoining hill was a national cemetery, thick-set 
with soldiers' graves, a beautiful spot, quiet and green, 
and receiving the best of care; yet it was nevertheless 
melancholy and lonely, for one could not forget that the 
sleepers there were far from home and all their kindred. 



64 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

In a little glen back of the cemetery was a tiny white- 
washed cottage, on the shadowed side of which sat an 
elderly colored woman and a small girl eating bread 
and milk. Some hens and chickens were picking 
around and watching the eaters, hopeful of getting a 
share of the feast; and a dog lay on the ground also 
alert and expectant; and a pig was rooting close by, and 
he, too, seemed to be watching for the bestowal of a 
portion of the bread and milk. It was a hot afternoon, 
and I stopped to talk. 

Every negro at all advanced in years has something 
to say about old times, and the woman at the cabin in 
the glen was no exception. "I was raised in Ferginia," 
said she; "and I was a house servant. I tell you I had 
mo' good times den dan I do now. People say dat 
evy'thing gittin' better; but I ain' no chicken, an' I 
know dat ain' so. I been thinkin' 'bout de chilluns. 
Are dey improve ? No ! Dey ain' smart an' dustless 
[industrious] like dey was befo' de war, an' dey ain' so 
mannerble, white or black. Den again, how is it 
about de Lord's day .'' Lots o' places it's gittin' so 
dey ain' no weeks. Folks work Sundays same like 
any other days. Yas, de worl' mo' wicked. Is you 
been in dese yere Vicksburg saloons ^ I'm skairt to 
go near de town in de night dar so much rippin' an' 
tearin'. Dey got so bold an' rapid aroun' hyar I doan' 
hardly want to go out er my house even in de daytime. 
It look like we so wicked we be punish soon by a great 




A Dugout 



Spring in Mississippi 6^ 

burnin'. De sun a ball er fire, an' de moon a lump er 
ice; an* I reckon if de sun git de upper ban' we're all 
goners. Yo' know bow Martinique done got burnt up. 
Once las' year it was so hot hyar I thought de heat 
gwine serve us de same way. Soon or late it's a-comin'. 
De Bible say de rainbow sign make us know de worl' 
be no mo' destroy by water. It be fire nex' time." 

I spoke to the woman about the shops in the town 
owned by negroes; but she said there ought to be more, 
and she was not enthusiastic over the thrift of her race, 
"If a darkey got money he boun' to spend it," said she. 
"He know he ain' gwine git rich anyway, so he doan' 
try to save nothin'. Den, too, a colored man think he 
cain't start in business widout he got 'bout a thousand 
dollars; but a white man will start wid no mo' dan a 
few peanuts an' a little popcorn in a basket. He lays 
up de nickels an' dimes, an' pretty soon he git a store, 
an' fust thing yo' know he way up." 

Just then the little girl exclaimed, "I done seen a 
rabbit over dar in de briers." 

"Dat remin' me er de stories dey use to tell 'bout de 
rabbit an' de yuther creeturs when I was a chile," 
remarked the woman. "I thought den de tales was all 
true, and I was sure Mr. Rabbit ketch us if we go down 
to de branch in de evenin'; an' if we see Mr. Rabbit, 
den we chilluns would light out, skeered to death." 

"What were the stories .^" I questioned. 

She responded with a series of several which she told 



66 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

with great animation, acting out all the parts and 
changing her voice to suit the words of the different 
characters, and now and then rising and skirmishing 
around the yard to illustrate the more dramatic portions. 

"Well," said she in beginning, "de stories was mos'ly 
about how 'mongst all de creeturs Mr. Rabbit was 
de smartest man in de crowd. He was a sly rascal, 
he sho' was. One day when Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Fox 
was talkin' togedder, Mr. Lion an' Mr. Tiger drove pas' 
wid a load er fish. 

"'Look a' darl'says Mr. Rabbit. 'I want some er 
dose fish.' 

'"But yo' cain't git 'em,' says Mr. Fox. 

"'Yes, I kin,' says Mr. Rabbit; an' he cry out, 'Hoi' 
on, Mr. Lion ! Hoi' on, Mr. Tiger !' 

"Dey stop, dey did, an' he run an' jump up on de 
fish wagon. De lion an' de tiger, dey order him off. 
Den he run 'way up de road an' hide in de bushes, an' 
when de fish wagon come along he holler out, 'Whoop, 
whoop, whoop, diddle-um-ding, varmints of all kinds, 
lions an' tigers, an' dey cain't keep my th'oat cl'ar!' 

"'Heyo! Mr. Lion,' says Mr. Tiger. 'What dat .? 
I reckon we better be gittin' along in a hurry.' 

"So dey whip up de boss. But Mr. Rabbit run fas' 
as he kin an' git ahead once mo' in de bushes, an' soon 
as dey come along he holler, 'Whoop, whoop, whoop, 
diddle-um-ding, varmints of all kinds, lions an' tigers, 
an' dey cain't keep my th'oat cl'ar!' 



spring in Mississippi 67 

"Dat skeer Mr. Lion an' Mr. Tiger so much dey 
jump off de wagon an' run like dey sent for. Den 
Mr. Rabbit he drive off wid de fish, an' de nex' day he 
'pint a time fo' a big feast. All Mr. Rabbit's frien's 
come excep' Mr. Fox, an' bimeby he come too, but he 
was all limpy an' rasslefrassled. * Boo-hoo-hoo ! ' he 
cry, *I done met up wid Mr. Lion an' Mr. Tiger, an' 
dey 'cuse me er stealin' der fish; and dose fellers, dey 
mos' tore me all to pieces.' 

"Dat de way de rabbit always doin' de mischief, an' 
some one else gittin' punish fo' it. Yas, de rabbit 
mighty slick. He de cunningest li'l' ole creetur in de 
woods. Sometimes when he chased by dogs he find 
a long holler log lyin' on de groun' wid a hole jus' large 
enough fo' him to slip thoo', an' he go in one end an' 
out de yuther. De dog foller his track to de log, an' 
he spen' his time pawin' at de place de rabbit went in, 
an' de rabbit git safe home. But his bes' trick when 
he runnin' from de dog is to take a circle aroun' an' 
come back to his track, an' dar he stop an' lick his 
paws to take off de scent. Nex' thing he fotch a few 
jumps out sideways, an' sit still an' let de dog run 
pas'. Den he go off about his business." 

MR. FOX LEARNS WHAT TROUBLE IS 

"In dese ole stories de rabbit always on a com- 
plaint when dar any work to do, an' he never leave off 
tellin' about his troubles. One day Mr. Fox say to 



68 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

him, 'Seem like you have troubles all de time, Mr. 
Rabbit.' 

"'Yas,' Mr. Rabbit reply, 'ev'ybody always atter me, 
diggity-diggity, an' I have nothin' but trouble.' 

"'Well now, Mr. Rabbit,' de fox say, *I wish yo' 
'splain to me what trouble is. I doan' know rightly what 
yo' mean by trouble.' 

"'I cain't tell yo' de meanin' er de word,' says Mr. 
Rabbit; 'but I kin show you de meanin'.' 

'"I wish yo' would,' says Mr. Fox. 'I done heard 
yo' talk so much about trouble I want to understan' 
what it is like.' 

"'Ve'y well,' Mr. Rabbit 'sponds, 'de nex' hot day 
yo' go out in dat ole fiel' near my house, an' yo' lie 
down an' sleep dar on de knoll whar de sage grass grow 
thick, an' I'll come an' wake yo' up an' show yo' what 
trouble is.' 

"So de nex' hot day de fox go to de ole fiel' an' lie 
down on de knoll in de sage grass, an' pretty soon he 
soun' asleep. Mr. Rabbit come an' fin' him dar, an' 
den he set de grass on fire in a ring all aroun' Mr. Fox. 
Soon as he done dat he give a yell an' say, 'Mr. Fox! 
Mr. Fox ! Yo' wake up, an' doan' was'e no time 'bout 
it, needer !' 

"Mr. Fox, he wake up, an' he say, 'What all dis 
smoke, what all dis fire I smell, Mr. Rabbit ?' 

'"Dat trouble, Mr. Fox, dat trouble,' says Mr. 
Rabbit, an' he lit out fo' home. 




Beside the "Bayou" 



Spring in Mississippi 69 

"Mr. Fox certainly learnt what trouble was, an' he 
come mighty nigh bein' burnt to death." 

MR. WREN BORROWS MONEY OF MR. BUZZARD 

"Did yo' ever hear er how de wren borrowed some 
money er Mr. Buzzard ? Mr. Buzzard, he willin' to 
'commodate Mr, Wren, only he ask, 'When yo' gwine 
pay me V 

"'Soon as I git growed,' says Mr. Wren. 'Soon as I 
git to yo' size, Mr. Buzzard,' says he. 

"So Mr. Buzzard loant him de money, and atter 
dat, once in a while he call on Mr. Wren to see when 
dat money be paid back. Mr. Wren always say, 'Soon 
as I git growed;' but ev'y time Mr. Buzzard take notice 
Mr. Wren ain' gittin' no larger at all. 

"Mr. Buzzard was mos' as slow in his thinkin' as 
Mr. Wren was in his payin,' but at las' he begin to 
suspect somethin' not right, an' he speak to Mr. Hawk 
'bout de matter. 'What kin' of a man is dis Mr. 
Wren.?' he say. 'He been owin' me money dese five 
or six years, an' he say he pay when he git growed ; but 
he de same size now as when he borrow it. Look like 
he never git growed.' 

'"How dis .?' says Mr. Hawk. 'Do you reckon Mr. 
Wren gwine git to be de same size as you an' me ?' 

'"I shore does,' says Mr. Buzzard. 

"'Dat's whar yo' make a mistake,' Mr. Hawk say. 
'He big as he ever will be. Why ! Mr. Wren was a ole 



yo Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

man when he borrowed dat money, an'yo'U never see it 
— not if yo' wait fo' ever ! ' " 

JOHNNY AND TOMMY AND THE BEAR 

The little girl had been an interested listener to these 
narratives. Now she asked, "What dat story, granny, 
'bout Johnny and Tommy?" 

"One time," resumed the old woman, "two boys by 
de name er Johnny an' Tommy was out in de woods 
an' dey come to a tall, hollow stump, and dey heard 
some b'ar cubs inside. Dey want to git dem cubs, an' 
Johnny dumb up to de top er de snag an' went down 
inside an' caught 'em. Den he foun' he couldn't git 
back. 'What I gwine do?' he holler to Tommy. 

"'Have yo' got a knife ?' Tommy say. 

"'Yes,' says Johnny. 

"'Well den,' Tommy tol' him, 'when de b'ar come 
she'll go down into de holler stump backward, an' 
when she git low enough yo' ketch her by de tail an' 
prick her wid yo' knife, an' she'll pull yo' out er dar in 
a hurry.' 

"So Tommy hid off in de bushes to see what gwine 
happen, an' about sundown de ole b'ar come an' climb 
de stump an' back down out er sight. Johnny all 
ready, an' he got de cubs fastened to him tied up in his 
jacket. Soon as de b'ar got whar he could reach her 
he grip her tail an' prick her wid his knife, an' up she 
scramble draggin' him atter her. Den Tommy holler 



Spring in Mississippi 71 

out, 'Hang on, Johnny! Tail holt is a mighty good 
holt!' 

"An' Johnny did hang on, an' soon as he got to de 
top he give de b'ar a push an' she tumble down an' was 
killed, an' de boys got de cubs an' de b'ar, too." 

THE STORY OF THE FRAIDS 

"I remembrance 'bout anudder li'l' boy who had to 
go ev'y evenin' to de pasture to drive home his master's 
cows. He'd start at three o'clock, but he'd stay foolin' 
off his time and never would git back till dark. De 
road pass a graveyard, an' his master say to him, *Ain' 
yo' skeered to come by dat graveyard atter dark ?' 

'"No, sir,' de H'l' boy say. 'What for I be skeered .?' 

"'Why, dar's fraids dar,' de man say. 

"'What's dem.^' de li'l' boy ask. 

'"Ghos'es an' things all in white,' de man say; *an* 
if dey cotch yo' dat de end er you.' 

'"Well, I ain' never seen none yit,' de boy say. 

"Den de man tell hisse'f dat he ain' gwine have de 
boy wastin' so much time as he been a-doin', an' he 
think he give him a skeer dat make him come home 
earlier. So de nex' night he cover hisse'f wid a white 
sheet an' go hide in de graveyard. But it happen de 
man have a monkey dat always try to do ev'ything jus' 
like he see his master do; an' dat monkey, he git a 
pillow-slip an' put it over hisse'f an' foller his master 
to de graveyard. De man, he didn't see de monkey, 



72 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

an' he git on a tombstone, an' de monkey git on annudder 
tombstone behind him. Pretty soon de boy come along 
whistlin' an' drivin' de cows. Den de man raise up an* 
squat down in his white sheet, an' de monkey in de 
pillow-slip done de same. De boy stop an' point an' 
say, 'Dar's two fraids — big fraid an' li'l' fraid.' 

"De man doan' understan' what dat talk mean 'bout 
de li'l' fraid, an' he look aroun', but de monkey had 
jump down out er sight. De man begin his motions 
ag'in to try to skeer de boy, an' de monkey git up an' 
do de same. De boy point wid his finger, an' he holler 
out de secon' time, *Dar's two fraids, big fraid an* 
li'l' fraid.' 

"At dat de man turn aroun' quick, an' see de yuther 
white thing, an' he git a great fright an' broke an' run, 
an' de monkey foller him fast as he could go. Den de 
boy wid de cows holler, 'Run big fraid or li'l' fraid'll 
cotch you !' 

"What de boy had see didn't skeer him, an' it didn't 
make him no quicker'n he'd been befo'. Seem like 
yo' couldn't learn some folks nothin' nohow." 

My landlord at the hotel had mentioned that there 
was "a heap of powerful pretty country under water 
along the river"; and one day I made a trip to an 
outlying village to see how the people fared in the sub- 
merged districts. At this particular place they took 
the flood philosophically enough. They were in no 
danger — simply inconvenienced. Some of the land 



Spring in Mississippi 73 

and houses had not yet been touched, but the majority 
of the dwelHngs were quite Venetian, and were either 
awash with the water, or were on a narrow island that 
had been the breastwork of a war-time fort. I hired a 
negro to take me for a row, and he called my attention 
to stains on the whitewashed walls of some of the cabins 
that showed last year's flood had been up to the window- 
sills. "Floods like dat is a bad thing," explained my 
companion. "Dey ramshacks de floor, an' de furniture 
all comes to pieces atterwards." 

The village people owned quite a flotilla of boats, 
some of which were dugouts. These dugouts were 
usually of cypress and looked clumsy and ugly, but 
the village storekeeper, with whom I became ac- 
quainted, told me they were very serviceable. "You 
don't want to git careless, though, or they'll capsize," 
he added. " I mighty nigh got drowned, havin' one turn 
over under me this year. I was duck-shootin', and I 
had a one hundred and twenty-five dollar gun that I 
was boun' to hang on to whatever happened. Another 
boat come to my help, and I got into it, and the 
thing was all over so quick I didn't have time to git 
scared; but when I was safe I shook like I had the 
ague." 

There was no levee along here, and the man said 
they didn't want one. The flood fertilized their land, 
and on the whole was a benefit. They always waited 
till the spring rise was over before planting much, 



74 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

though the water now and then would come up in the 
summer and do a great deal of damage. 

One of the local citizens who attracted my notice 
was a big-framed and very fleshy black man. He looked 
so superlatively lazy and amiable and talkative that I 
had the curiosity to ask how he got along in the world. 
I was surprised to learn that he owned a little farm, 
and was prosperous. Yet he did no work on his home 
place, because he claimed to have heart trouble. His 
family took care of his garden, and he carried a load of 
truck to town every week. That sold for four or five 
dollars, which was money enough to make him inde- 
pendently rich. I first came across him sitting by a 
roadside ditch chatting with a woman who was fishing. 
The woman was not catching anything, and seemed 
minded to quit. "Yo' think yo' luck won't come?" 
he inquired sympathetically. 

"Too much fraish water," she responded. 

"Yas, dat de trouble, sure as de truf," said the man. 
"De fish swim all aroun' de fiel's now an' git all dey 
want to eat, so dey won't bite yo' hook. Dem fish jus' 
as fat as hogs. It no sati'faction to fish when dey 
dataway." 

"Las' week de fish in dis hyar bayou bite as soon as 
I put de hook in de water," remarked the woman. 

" Maybe dat de consequence again when de river go 
down," the man said encouragingly. "Joe tell me he 
git plenty spearin' 'em wid his gig at night." 



Spring in Mississippi 75 

"How does he do it?" I asked. 

"He go in his boat wid a torch," was the reply, "an' 
de light draw de fish an' blin' 'em, an' he plunge his 
gig into 'em, an' dar he have 'em." 

Not far away were some children with poles and lines 
lingering along the banks of the ditch catching craw- 
fish. They were quite successful, or, as the fat negro 
said, " Dey do everlastingly cotch 'em now, don't dey ? 
I reckon dey gwine have 'em fo' dinner. Summer 
time, when de ponds are low, yo' c'n take a rake an' 
scoop out crawfish by de hundred. Yo' tote 'em home 
an' po' hot water on 'em an' den pull de bark olF'n 
'em, an' de tail is rael nice. We fry de meat jus' like 
fish, an' it's better'n fish fo' eatin' because dar ain't 
no bones." 

The most interesting excursion I made from Vicks- 
burg was a steamboat trip in the Elk forty miles down 
the river. We started at noon of a quiet sunny day 
that was too hot on the land, but very comfortable on 
the water. Another steamer left the city at the same 
time, and each tried to get ahead of its rival; but we 
were gradually left behind. Every one on board was 
interested in the race, and the officers made many 
excuses for our defeat — the boat was not loaded right 
for speed, some of the paddle blades were broken, etc. 
Among the passengers was an old-time river captain. 
To him the race was peurile. " By Jove ! you ought 
to see how they did things thirty years ago," he said. 



76 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"Once I raced all the way from New Orleans to St. 
Louis. My boat was beaten and I lost nine thousand 
dollars that I bet on her. There was a big lot o' money 
changed hands every race when the boats was well 
matched. In the years just after the war steamboatin' 
was a big thing. I made one trip up the Missouri as 
far as Bismarck that give the owners of my steamboat 
a profit of ^110,000; and every man on the boat made 
all the money he wanted, besides. We traded with the 
Indians, and you could get twenty dollars' worth of 
furs for a string of beads that cost five cents." 

Now the Elk slowed up to make a landing, and the 
other boat went on down-stream like a beautiful white 
water-creature and disappeared from view. We had 
stopped at a choppers' camp, and in the near woods I 
could see tents and oxen. At the shore were several 
waiting negroes. They wore red shirts that made 
striking bits of color amid the wild greenery of the 
woodland. The water was up, lapping the banktop, 
and the boat swung about in the swift, boiling current, 
and pushed its bow snug to the shore. Our black 
roustabouts promptly got a rope around a tree, laid a 
couple of planks from the boat to the land, and hustled 
oflF the bags and parcels that were to be left. Then we 
went on, and we had the river all to ourselves for the 
rest of the journey. Its vast loneliness was quite 
impressive, and it must have appeared much the same 
in the days of its first explorers. Nearly always the 



Spring in Mississippi 77 

banks were wooded, but there were occasional open- 
ings affording glimpses of plantation fields and a scat- 
tering of cabins. From time to time we would butt up 
to the bank and discharge or take on freight, and the 
boat went over the same route, doing this twice a week 
the year through. 

The passengers included four young men who were 
making the round trip for an outing. They spared no 
effort to have a glorious time, and their visits to the bar 
were almost unceasing. The capacity they displayed 
for stowing away liquor was a marvel; and they were 
very social and affectionate, not only among themselves, 
but with every one on board. Sometimes they engaged 
in a tipsy race about the deck. Sometimes they en- 
twined their arms around one another and half sat, 
half lay in the deck chairs. Sometimes they felt their 
biceps and challenged each other to fight. The rest of 
us dodged them when we could. Even the pilot, when 
they came to the supper table, to which he had just sat 
down, rose hastily and left. "Here, come back !" one 
of the rioters called after him. "You got any objec- 
tions to my company .? I ain't no ghost. I ain't no 
haunt." 

Again and again they treated to drinks and cigars 
the officers of the boat, the passengers, and such of the 
crew as they happened to meet. Once I saw their 
leader step up to the mate, pluck a half-smoked cigar 
from his lips, and throw it into the water. At the same 



yS Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

time he handed out another. "Have a good cigar,'* 
he said. 

Among the persons treated by the picnickers were a 
couple of negro convicts who were manacled hand to 
hand. Their melancholy plight touched the tender 
sympathies of their benefactors. "You are black," 
said one of the quartet; "but I have a heart, and I feel 
for you. Here, drink another bottle of beer; and, boys, 
take my advice — behave yourselves while you are 
serving out your time, and when they set you free live 
right and don't get into the same trouble again." 

The prisoners were on their way to a convict camp, 
where they were to work out their fines at the rate of 
four dollars a month. Presently we approached their 
destination, and the steamboat gave a shrill hoot with 
its whistle, as it always did when we were about to stop. 
The banks here were low enough so that the flood cov- 
ered them and allowed us to go back to the levee. 
Behind the embankment were numerous barns and 
cabins, and a big, wide-spreading, white mansion in a 
grove. It was a great event on the plantation to have 
the steamer come so near, and quite a concourse of 
negro women and children gathered on the bank to 
chatter and laugh while they watched the rousters 
hurry the freight to shore. We passengers looked 
down on the crowd from the upper deck, and one of 
the happy four swung a beer bottle in the air and asked 
if any of those on the levee wanted a drink. "I'll 



Spring in Mississippi 79 

treat," he cried. "Have some? Now laugh! What 
are you all standing there for anyway ? Those roust- 
abouts you're lookin' at are tired. Go tell 'em you'll 
unload ! Let the women do the work, I say ! Let 
the women do the work! Now laugh again!" 

He drank the beer himself, and went down on the 
levee. There he found a small boy whose apparel 
was amazingly scanty and ragged, and he asked, "Are 
those the best clothes you've got.^" 

"Yas, sir." 

"Why, they are all to pieces, and the buttons are 
gone." 

"Yas, sir." 

"You ain't fit to be seen. Don't you know that .f"' 

"Yas, sir." 

"Well," said the fellow, thrusting his hand into his 
pocket and pulling out several silver coins, "take this 
money and go buy yourself some clothes, and hurry up 
about it." 

The boy took the money and ran off, and we saw him 
no more. 

We were a long time unloading; for there was an 
immense deal of cattle feed and farm supplies and house- 
hold goods in great variety to be left. This convict 
camp was a big plantation, and, like many other planta- 
tions, it had people enough on it to make a good-sized 
village. Our rousters carried out most of the freight 
on their heads or shoulders, and their celerity and deft- 



8o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

ness in the heavy labor were a wonder. Two of them 
stayed on the lower deck and heaved up a burden to 
each man in turn, and the leader of the two often broke 
forth in a strange chant, to which the other responded 
like an echo. This chant was a monotone consisting of 
an improvised sentence shouted each time a bag or box 
was lifted to a waiting roustabout. The fragments 
were such as these : — 

First voice. I ain' gwine leave yo' he-ere ! 

Response. — leave yo' he-ere. 

First voice. Take yo' load if yo' pie-ease ! 

Response. — if yo' pie-ease. 

First voice. Oh, Lord ! Oh, Lord ! 

Response. — Oh, Lord ! 

First voice. I'm gwine live a long ti-ime ! 

Response. — a long ti-ime. 

First voice. Yo' doan' know what trouble I've seen ! 

Response. — what trouble I've seen ! 

Though to me the roustabouts seemed so alert and 
willing, they were not at all satisfactory to the mate, 
who, puffing viciously at a cigar, was constantly urging 
them to greater haste, and once in a while he let off an 
explosion of oaths. The captain told me he had known 
the mate to throw a rouster that was lazy right over- 
board. "You've got to be rough with 'em," he con- 
tinued. "They're a hard lot, and every man of 'em 
at the end of the trip will spend or gamble away the 
two dollars he's earned in the lov/ dives of Vicksburg." 



Spring in Mississippi 8i 

Yet as far as their work was concerned he preferred 
them to whites ; for none but negroes would contentedly 
"eat hardtack" and snatch such sleep as the exigencies 
allowed, "with a lump of coal for a pillow." 

Toward evening we entered a twenty-mile bend that 
the river had deserted long before, and which had since 
been known as Lake Palmyra. But during this year's 
high water the river had torn through into the upper end 
of this ancient, stagnant channel, and a considerable 
portion of the current now went that way instead of by 
the cut-off. The river is always tearing away at the 
banks — an aggressive, unfeeling monster. It will wash 
off hundreds of acres of an exposed plantation in a 
single season. But when it washes on one side a sand 
bar starts opposite and soon rises above low water, 
begins to grow to willows, and at length builds up so 
that it can be cleared and cultivated. The stream pro- 
gresses by many loops through the bottom lands, and 
often it cuts across the neck of the loops so that the 
valley is full of these abandoned channels; but the 
return of the stream to an old-time course is something 
unusual. 

The weather had become threatening, and the sun, 
low in the west, had been gradually effaced in a gloom 
of thickening cloud. A rough wind arose, and there 
was a dash of rain. We had come to another stopping- 
place, and pushed up into the willows skirting the bank 
until we could run our gang-plank to land near a store- 



82 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

house. While we were getting the goods to shore the 
clouds lifted in the west, and the sun shone out and 
sparkled on the waves and painted the misty east with 
a long streak of rainbow, and glorified the whole land- 
scape with amber light. It was a scene enchanted. 

Night came presently, but our journey continued 
with its frequent stops as before. One of our last calls 
was at a place where we went from the main channel 
back across country a mile or so. At first we followed 
a creek in the tall woods, and so narrow was the stream 
that we sometimes snapped off the branches on one 
side or the other. Then we came to more open country, 
where the brilliant eye of our searchlight revealed here 
and there a gaunt dead tree and a half-submerged barn, 
and in spots we could see the tops offence posts. Occa- 
sionally we scraped bottom, and the mate stood near the 
prow dropping the lead and calhng out, "Half twain — 
three feet and a half — mark twain," etc. 

It was a delicate piece of navigation, and not only 
was there danger of getting aground, or staving a hole 
on a snag, but the wheel might wind up a barbed wire 
fence which would be no less serious. However, we 
continued safely to a levee, where a bent little old man 
was waiting with a lantern, and walking about to keep 
warm in the clear chill night air. Not far away was a 
group of sheds, and the rest was woods. When we 
finished unlading, the bales and bags and boxes lay in 
half a dozen piles, covering the levee for some distance. 



Spring in Mississippi 83 

Now the boat backed around, and picked a cautious 
passage to the main waterway. 

About midnight we left Lake Palmyra by forcing our 
way against the tumultuous current pouring through 
the new crevasse, and then struggled on up-stream 
toward Vicksburg. Every one who could went to bed, 
but the berth assigned to me was in the same room with 
one of the drunken celebrators, and I preferred to let 
him have the entire space. In the first gray of the 
morning we arrived at Vicksburg; and though the trip 
was not all pleasure, I disembarked pretty well satisfied 
with its varied sights and experiences. 

Note. — Vicksburg, by reason of the part it played in the Civil War, 
is one of the best-known and most interesting towns in the South. The 
battle-field is a national park. It covers a wide area, and for most persons 
the best way to see it is by driving. The town itself is remarkably 
picturesque, and one ought to do a good deal of rambling on foot to 
really appreciate the exhilarating changes of view, and the odd environ- 
ment of some of the humbler habitations. Vicksburg is an admirable 
place from which to make a river trip. Few people would however 
enjoy being on a Mississippi steamboat more than a day, as the lower 
river is very monotonous. My experience would indicate that it is desir- 
able to carry along something to eat when making a trip on a local 
steamer, for the food that will be flirnished is likely to be very bad. In 
Vicksburg, as in nearly all Southern cities, only the best hotels are really 
satisfactory. 



COTTON PATCH LIFE IN TENNESSEE 

1WAS only a short distance from Memphis, yet 
the region was almost as raw and rustic as if there 
had not been a large town within a hundred 
miles. To be sure great fields of corn and cotton were 
numerous; but I did not have to go far to strike the 
forest, and only a few decades have passed since the 
woodland was nearly omnipresent. The trees have 
been laid low to make fence rails and railroad ties, and 
to supply fuel for the old, wood-burning locomotives. 
Much of what was cut was ruthlessly wasted or sold 
for a song. "If the timber was standing now that was 
hyar twenty years ago," said one man, "we'd all make 
our fortunes handling it. Why, I've chopped down a 
coon tree and let it lie and rot that'd be worth forty 
dollars to-day." 

The spring was backward, but the corn had been 
planted and was beginning to come up, and the cotton 
fields had been ploughed and ridged and much of the 
seed was in. On my first day, work was pretty much 
at a standstill, for a heavy rain the previous night had 
converted the fields into mud and bog. 

84 




o 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 85 

I started out for a ramble, and as long as I kept to 
the "pike" the travelling was fairly good; but as soon 
as I turned off on to a dirt road I was in sticky red clay, 
and had to pick my route with caution. There were 
more blacks than whites in this region, and the country 
was dotted over with their cabins. Many of the huts 
were made of logs, and they were all primitive. Some 
were so rudely constructed, and so open to the onsets 
of the storms, you wondered how they could be used 
for dwellings. The old lanes along which these homes 
were scattered were very wild and picturesque. There 
were stumps in them and occasional large trees, while 
along the fences grew briers and bushes. Frequently 
they were hardly more than a cart track wide, and were 
so rough and rutted as to be practically impassable for 
a Christian vehicle. In explanation of the badness of 
these byways, I was told that only negroes lived along 
them; and that therefore the local authorities never 
troubled themselves to "work" the roads. "Dey 
think anything will do fo' colored folks," was one 
negro's comment. 

A rural delivery route ran through the district, and 
nearly every dwelling had its metal box set out by the 
roadside on a post. The white people owned their 
boxes at a cost of a dollar and thirty cents; but they 
told me that the negroes mostly rented theirs from a 
Memphis daily newspaper, and paid sixty-five cents a 
month for box and paper. A representative of the paper 



86 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

had explained to the negroes that they could not have 
boxes except on these conditions, and that if they were 
without a box they could only get their mail by going to 
Memphis for it. Many of them did not want the paper 
and could not afford the expense, but they were too 
inexperienced to comprehend the swindle or to know 
what to do about it. The colored families are apt to 
take a religious weekly, and every negro has thoughts 
and opinions on the topics of the time, especially on 
those that affect his own race; but, as one of them said, 
"Hit doan' do to talk much or we git into a heap er 
trouble. We low-born, an' the white folks are not 
likin' us to say anything." 

The commonest type of negro home in the neighbor- 
hood was a long, single-story structure, with a kitchen at 
one end and sleeping apartments at the other, and an 
open passage-way between, known as "the entry." 
This entry served to separate the heated kitchen from 
the rest of the dwelling, and was a combination of porch, 
shed, and open-sided room for work and loitering. Its 
walls and roof made a handy hanging-place for all sorts 
of articles. The chimneys were outside at the ends of 
the house. They were usually of wooden slats thickly 
bedaubed with a mixture of clay and dry grass. "De 
clay an' grass chimney ain' ve'y endurable," I was 
informed, "an' in about fo' years dey have to be built 
over." 

Toward noon I passed through a long stretch of 




The Sitting Hen's Prison Coop 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 87 

woodland. Off among the trees I could hear the ding- 
dong of cowbells, the cooing of turtle-doves, the drum- 
beat of the "peckerwoods," and the trilling and twitter- 
ing and whistling of a multitude of other birds. The 
wind rustled softly through the new foliage and the air 
was permeated with the odors of spring. Here and 
there were dashes of dogwood bloom, and patches of 
May-apple were coming into flower on the ground. 
I stopped for dinner at a farmhouse. The place was a 
half-wild sort of a ranch, the house badly out of 
repair, and in the home yard roamed numbers of 
turkeys, ducks, hens, goats, and hogs. Two of the 
older girls had been busy that morning picking up 
the dry last year's stalks in the corn field and piling 
them to burn. One of the boys, about ten years old, 
had been ploughing with a mule. 

We ate in the hot and grimy kitchen. Pork and 
mustard greens, corn-bread and coffee, were chief on 
the bill of fare. The farmer suggested I might prefer 
milk instead of coffee, and he poured a glass for me; 
but one taste was enough. The children of the family 
drank it freely, and the man also took a tumblerful. 
As he finished it he casually remarked that the milk 
was a little sour. I wondered that he said J' a little," 
for it was half curdled. 

He entertained me very handsomely and exemplified 
what he called "the old-fashioned Southern hospi- 
tality," that was "glad to see you come, and sorry to 



88 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

see you go." He observed further, that " Befo' the 
war nothing gave a man more pleasure than to do honor 
to his guest. You were treated with special respect, 
even at the hotels. Why, I used to know a landlord 
who, after a man registered, always wrote in front of 
the signature 'Capt.,' 'Maj.,' or *Col.,' so that no one 
stopping at his hotel failed to have a military title. 
He was a genuine polished old-style gentleman, and 
his guests was all treated like they was persons of 
distinction." 

My host said he was going fishing later in the day. 
"This is just the right time of year for it," he declared. 

'"Dogwood white 
Fisher's delight,' 

you know. Every old colored woman gets her hook 
and line ready when the dogwood blossoms, and so do 
all the rest of us." 

By night, when I returned to my boarding-place, the 
weather had turned cold, and the next day was so chilly 
and clouded I stayed indoors most of the time. A rude 
wind buffeted the trees and soughed wearily about the 
house, and I sat beside the kitchen fireplace to enjoy 
the grateful heat of the brisk fire that was kept burning 
there. The gloomy skies and the bleak and boisterous 
wind seemed to put my landlady in a mood for telling 
ghost stories. "The first thing I remember of my child- 
hood," said she, "is of sitting out on the porch of a 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 89 

moonlight night and hearing the darkies tell about the 
witches. When I went to bed I was so scared thinking 
a witch might come through the keyhole, I jus' couldn't 

sleep. 

"The niggers have a lot of queer ways. They take 
poisonous snakes' heads and pound 'em up with other 
poisonous things to put in hoodoo bags; and then they 
hide the bags under the doorstep, or in the bed of the 
person they want to harm. Once I was sick for a long 
time and no one could make out what the trouble was. 
At last the house burned and most everything in it; 
but we saved my feather bed, and I tore it up to make 
pillows. Inside I found a hoodoo ring made of feathers 
twisted into a band or ring fifteen inches across, and 
tied to it was a hundred or more little bags. I put it in 
the fire, and after that I got well. I 'spose I'd been 

inhalin' the poison. o • 1 1 

"When you was in Memphis did you see Brmkley 
Hall? I went to school there. Well, one night my 
room-mate and me was sitting together with a lighted 
lamp on our table. Suddenly some one blew out the 
light, and the lamp chimney went on the floor and was 
smashed. We was all in darkness, and we ran to the 
door. It was a door that never would close tight; but 
it was tight shut now and we couldn't get out. We 
heard some one walking in the room over the broken 
glass of the lamp chimney, and we began to scream. 
The girls in the rooms near us came to our door, and 



90 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

we told them what had happened, and how we couldn't 
get out. They laughed at us, but when they listened 
and heard the footsteps they went to shrieking. That 
brought the principal running up the stairs, and he 
opened the door; but there was nothing to see only 
some broken glass on the floor and us two girls limp 
with fright. 

"After that all sorts of things happened at the school. 
The girls used to hear the noise of water falling on the 
floor, and bells would ring with no one ringing them; 
and there was one scholar named Flora Robinson who 
would go into a trance, and see a little girl in a pale 
pink dress who kept following her. Once the little girl 
had her take a pencil and write, and the writing said 
that if Flora's folks would dig in a certain place they'd 
find jars with papers in 'em showing that Brinkley Hall 
belonged to the Robinsons. So her folks got some men 
to dig in that place, and a few feet down they came to 
a brick wall, and they tore that to pieces and found three 
glass jars, and they could see money and papers inside. 
They decided to let the jars stay right there till next day 
when they would open 'em before proper authorities. 
A man stood guard; but during the night he was 
knocked on the head, and the jars was stolen. So 
much had happened that the school broke up, and 
Brinkley Hall with its forty rooms is vacant yet. 

"Another strange thing in my own experience hap- 
pened after my husband died. He was very fond of 




On the Porch 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 91 

music, and in his last sickness he said if he could return 
to earth he would make his presence known by playing 
the piano. One day just at supper time, after he'd been 
dead about two weeks, I heard the piano play. All the 
children heard it, too, and we jumped up from the table, 
scared to death. I said I never would want to use that 
piano again, and I sent it to Memphis to be sold." 

My landlady in concluding urged me to call on a 
negro family by the name of Houston that lived next 
door and ask them what they knew about witches and 
other occult things. Their house was in a yard full of 
trees, and its aspect was rather pleasant from a distance, 
but when I got a close view I found it was shabby and 
decrepit. I was welcomed into the kitchen, a dismal 
place that gloomy day in spite of the flames flickering 
in the fireplace. The floor sagged dubiously, the ceiling 
was brown with smoke, and panes were missing from 
the windows, and the holes stuffed with rags. News- 
papers were pasted in a queer motley over the walls. 
The room had two beds. On one of them lay a gun. 
A sick girl was in the other, and the rest of the family 
sat in a circle at the borders of the rough, deepworn 
hearth doing very little except to spit into the fire at 
frequent intervals. Mrs. Houston and her two daugh- 
ters each had a wad of snufi^ inside of her under lip. 
My landlady had mentioned that a pedler of spectacles 
had recently been along. "He had two qualities," said 
she, "one for white folks at a dollar and a half, and one 



92 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

for darkies, with brass bows, at seventy-five cents. 
Houston bought a pair for himself, and a pair for the 
old woman. He wanted his oldest girl to have a pair, 
too, because they were fashionable, but she wouldn't." 

Sure enough, when I entered the kitchen, Mr. Houston 
went to the window-sill and got his spectacles, and handed 
his wife hers, and they both put them on. We were soon 
talking about the mysteries, and Mr. Houston said: "De 
witches ride our horses at night. In- de mornin' we'll 
find der manes and tails full of witches stirrups — de 
ha'r all twisted and tangled up. It couldn't twis' itself 
up dataway, an' yo' cain't pick de ha'r straight in an 
hour. You have to cut it. You can lock yo' horses up 
an' tie 'em tight as yo' please; but it make no dif'runce, 
de witches git 'em an' use 'em jus' de same. Some- 
times, too, de witches come in de house when you asleep 
an' ride you, an' you wake up all tired an' lame." 

" I doan' min' de witches so much as de conjurations," 
remarked Mrs. Houston. 

"Well," said the man, "if yo' find a conjure thing, all 
yo' got to do is to put some silver money in yo' shoes, 
an' you c'n walk over it widout gittin' any harm." 

"But it ain' often yo' find it befo' hand," she ob- 
jected, "an' I doan' want to keep money in my shoes 
all de time." 

"My oldes' girl, Em'line, was tricked once," the 
man went on. "She'd have a pain in her breast, an' 
nex' minute de pain would be in her side, an' den in her 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 93 

back — de pain keep movin' aroun' all over her an' 
was worryin' her to death. We went after a medical 
doctor, and when he see her he turn white an' scratch 
his haid an' look like he scared. He did de bes' he 
could fo' her, but ev'y bit er de medicine what he give 
her she throwed up. We tried some mo' doctors, an' 
dey ev'y one give her a round er medicine; but none of 
'em couldn't help her. She had spells hke she was 
dyin' an' got black under her eyes an' round her lips, 
an' she said it no use to sen' fo' any one else. But we 
went an' got a hoodoo doctor from Memphis. Soon 
as he come he say to her, 'Who you shuck hands wid V 

"She tol' him she ain't shuck hands wid nobody; 
but he say some one had hoi' er her hand shore, an' he 
describe de man, an' she know who de man is. He a 
feller what been wantin' to marry her. We try to raise 
our children nice an' 'spectable, an' we want 'em to keep 
de bes' company dar is, an' dat feller too no account. 
So she wouldn't have him. She say she ain't shuck 
hands wid him; but one day she chmbin' up a bank, an' 
dat man had caught her by de arm an' holp her up, an' 
no sooner did he do dat dan she fin' herse'f havin' de 
trembles. De hoodoo doctor he listen an' lif his 
eyebrows; but he 'pear not to be sati'fied yit. He look 
aroun,' an' he say, 'Dar somethin' bad in dis hyar 
house;' an' he ask Em'line, 'Whar dose pillows on yo' 
bed been to ? ' 

"Den he took 'em an' rip 'em open, an' dar was a 



94 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

conjure thing big as yo' fis' in each one. It was a piece 
er cloth wid wax on both sides, an' all kind er feathers 
quirled aroun' and aroun' in de wax. De hoodoo 
doctor pass one to me, but when I took it in my han' 
a cramp run plumb up in my shoulder. I couldn't 
hoi' it. Nex' thing, de doctor look at de bottles er 
medicine on de table, an' set 'em all aside, an' tol' us 
not to use 'em no mo'. Den he give Em'line a little 
shot er quicksilver an' she swallow it an' was cured. 
I done heard that quicksilver is death fo' a well person 
to take any of it; but if yo' been conjured it ketch de 
pizen an' doan' hurt yo' none." 

"Yo' c'n tell whether yo' been tricked," said Mrs. 
Houston, "by takin' a piece er silver money an' sleepin' 
wid it in yo' mouth. If yo' been conjured, de silver, 
in de mornin', be jus' as black as a coal wid spots er 
yaller like copper on it." 

"De hoodoo doctor charge ten dollars fo' what he 
done," Mr. Houston resumed. "Dat a heap to pay, 
an' yit, if I was took sick bad, I shore would send fo' 
him." 

"De same feller what trick Em'line made de attemp' 
atterward to conjure de whole chu'ch," said Mrs. 
Houston. 

"Yes," observed Mr. Houston, "I see him put a little 
mess under de chu'ch doorstep an' bury it. I didn't 
know certain what he doin', but I step aroun' it when 
I went in. Yuthers, dey step over it, an' dey git con- 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 95 

jured. Our preacher man, he git conjured, too, an' 
no sooner is he preachin' dan he make out like he 
mighty happy, an' he put his arms round de sisters an' 
hugged 'em. I reckon if he hadn't been wearin' a 
silver watch which kind er protect him, he'd been killed. 
My nephew was took sick at de same time right dar in 
meetin', an' I tol' him what de matter was. So he 
jump on a mule an' rode as fas' as he could to de doctor 
to git himself worked on. Atter meetin' I took a stick 
an' pull de conjure thing out from under de doorstep, 
an' de nex' Sunday we discuss de matter in de chu'ch 
to see what we better do about de feller; but he had 
skipped, an' he ain' been round hyar since." 

"I mighty glad he gone, too," Mrs. Houston com- 
mented. "De way he done trick Em'line give me de 
worst scare I had since freedom. Yas, dat de bigges' 
shakeup I ever expe'ence, excep' in de war when dey 
had a battle near whar I lived. Oh, my Lord, how 
dey fought ! We'd hearde guns a-firin' fast as dey could 
pop, an' once in a while a big cannon would bang. De 
Southern soldiers went marchin' past, back an' forth, 
an' dey go all through people's fields. Lord 'a' mercy ! 
dey'd throw down de fences dat was in de way, an' 
make a wide dusty road right through de green fields. 
Den de Northern soldiers come, thousands an' millions 
of 'em, I reckon, an' dey took all our horses an' mules, 
an' all de hams out er our smoke-houses. Some er de 
white folks would hide der things, but de Northern 



96 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

soldiers would git hoi' er de darkies an' threaten to kill 
'em if dey didn't tell whar de things was. Dey begun 
to build forts, an' dey tell de planters to sen' der darkies 
to help. One mighty mean man said he wa'n't gwine 
have his darkies workin' fo' de North. So dey took 
his two sons an' put dem at diggin'. Dat make him 
think he made a mistake, an' he didn't was'e no time 
in bringin' de darkies to take his sons' place." 

"I holped de Republican party build dem breast- 
works," declared Mr. Houston. "Dat de fust work I 
done fo' de Republican party. It wa'n't long befo' de 
Rebs had been run out from aroun' hyar. De cars kep' 
comin' all de time loaded inside an' outside wid Repub- 
lican party soldiers, an' in der uniforms dey look jus' 
like bluebirds. Some colored men jine de Republican 
party army an' went to fight, an' dey want me go too; 
but I'd got a wife, an' I didn't want to be separate from 
her an' perhaps never see her again. Besides, I didn't 
know whether de North gwine beat, though it look mo' 
bad fo' de South all de time. Yit I kep' out er de army 
way to de end, becaze I reckoned if de Republican 
party win, I be free whedder I fight or not. If she git 
licked I better not be too much mix up in de rumpus." 

Back of the village to the east was a wide expanse of 
corn and cotton fields extending over to some vv^oods 
along a creek. Bordering the woods were frequent 
cabins, and these were connected with the village by 
irregular paths skirting the ditches and edges of the 




X 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 97 

fields and occasionally taking a straight cut across the 
cultivated grounds. Most of this land rented for five 
dollars an acre. Corn and cotton were the chief crops, 
but some of it was planted to potatoes and pease. In 
good weather the region is very busy with men, women, 
and children intent on earning the money to pay the 
rent and get a living for themseves. They begin to put 
in the cotton seed when the scrub hickory buds; and 
2L white man told me that negroes depended so much on 
nature thus to indicate the proper time, that "If the 
scrub hickory didn't never bud they wouldn't never 
expect to plant." 

A month later the cotton is ready for its first "chop- 
ping" — that is, hoeing. They start picking in Septem- 
ber, and money is then more plentiful than at any other 
season. Most of the negroes, in addition to caring for 
their own crops, do a good deal of picking for the whites. 
The pay is fifty to seventy-five cents a hundred, and the 
day's labor begins as soon as the dew dries and ends a 
half hour before sunset. "It's fun to any one to pick 
cotton," an old woman said to me. "I've picked over 
two hundred in a day many a time, and nursed my baby 
and milked my cow and cooked dinner fo' me an' my 
ole man an' three chillen. De men de bes' pickers. 
Some of 'em certainly can snatch it. De women gits 
tired in de back, an' de men dey hoi' out longer. When 
dere's a prize offered I seen men pick much as four 
hundred pounds er dis yer big boll cotton in one day." 



98 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The fields are at their whitest just after the first 
frosts. Then all the bolls open and the cotton patches 
look as if there had been a fall of snow. The frost also 
loosens the cotton and makes picking easy. The work 
goes on for many weeks, and there is some desultory 
gleaning all through the winter. One famous cotton 
picker is "Uncle Henry," reputed to be over a hundred 
years old. He never cuts his finger nails, because he 
wants them to grow long, so he can have their aid in get- 
ting the cotton quickly out of the bolls. I called on him 
one day at his house, and as I approached I heard him 
singing a curious negro hymn. 

** A gospel hook got-a-hung to my heart, 
Eli shoutin' in de heaven, ' Good Lord ! 
Good Lord ! Good Lord ! ' 
Eli shoutin' in de heaven, < Good Lord!' " 

His home was on the edge of the woods, a white- 
washed log dwelling with a huddle of little outbuildings 
and fenced enclosures roundabout. Uncle Henry was 
sitting by the kitchen fire entertaining several grand- 
children. The grizzled old negro looked to be about 
fourscore; but he had no doubt he was entitled to 
thirty years more, and said there were lots of colored 
people one hundred and twenty and one hundred 
and twenty-five years of age. He remembered dis- 
tinctly the "falling of the stars" in 1833, and any 
negro whose memory has that span is a patriarch 
of his race. Aside from the war, that is the greatest 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 99 

event of modern times in the chronicles of the colored 
folks. 

"I was about ten years ole, I reckon," said Uncle 
Henry, "and I was out playin' hide and coop wid a 
parcel er white boys, an' we thought it was a snow- 
storm at de start. Den, de fust news I knew my 
mammy an' missis was a-hollerin' an' cryin', 'Lord 
have mercy! Lord have mercy!' an' sayin' it was de 
end er de worl'. My missis made noise enough, I can 
tell yo' dat. I never beared such a voice as dat woman 
had. One er our men was name Dave Tucker, an' 
he was de only man on de place what could hive bees. 
When de bees swarmed he bleeged to come, an' my ole 
missis could holler an' call him from five miles away. 

"Dat night I speakin' about it appear like ev'y star 
in de sky was a-fallin'. Some er de boys try to cotch 
*em in der hats, but de stars go out befo' dey git to de 
groun'. Dey lit up de whole earth, an' as dey fell dey 
made a sissin' soun' like de soun' er draps er water 
thrown on a hot skillet. My oldes' brudder, he'd been 
out 'mongst de gals dat night, an' he was on his journey 
home when he heard de roarin' er de stars a-fallin', an' 
he thought de whole elements was burnin' an' de judg- 
ment come. He reckoned his time was out, an' de got 
down den an' dar on his knees an' he prayed, 'O Lord, 
come quickly, come quickly, I greatly need yo'!' 

"Dem dat hadn't never prayed in der lives prayed 
a li'l' bit dat night, an' I hear tell er one man — an' 

L W C, 



lOO Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

he was a ve'y ole man too — he ain' been use to prayin', 
an' he try to say de Lord's Prayer; but when he git to, 
*Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,' he kind er 
mixed, an' he say instead, 'Lord, kick 'em as dey 
come!' Yas, it scare us all, an' in less'n two weeks 
ev'ybody, white an' black, got religion. Dar was mo' 
religion dan enough." 

When I left Uncle Henry one of his grandsons be- 
came my guide on the uncertain paths that linked cabin 
to cabin and connected them with the village. He told 
me about a gun he had, and how he had shot rabbits 
and tried to shoot ducks. 

"What's that bird we hear in the tall trees just 
ahead .f"' I interrupted. 

"Dat's a kind er a li'l' ole bird call' a wren," was the 
reply. 

Then he pointed out a redbird and some "jay 
birds," and said, "De redbird de prettiest bird we got. 
Dar's lots er birds hyar — peckerwoods an' sapsuckers 
an' yallerhammers an' robins; an' dar's de rain crowds 
what set up in de trees an' holler when it's fixin' for to 
rain; an' a li'l' ole speckle bird call a thrush. Some er 
de birds are good to eat, an' in de winter time I knock 
'em down wid a stick. Dey roun' stumps atter some- 
thing to feed on, an' it so col' dey won't hardly fly. Yo' 
be astonish' how col' it is hyar sometimes; but in sum- 
mer, it often so hot we cain't scarcely stay in our clothes. 
We gwine along de bottoms near de crick now. Yo' 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee loi 

hear all dat hollerin' over dar ? Dat de spring frogs. 
Dey a li'l' muddy color frog no bigger dan de end er 
my thumb. Dey de firs' frog in de spring. De toad 
frog an' de bullfrog doan' come until it git right warm." 

The boy was surprisingly keen in his knowledge of 
the little creatures of the fields and woods. He was 
himself a child of nature, a companion of the wild, 
whose world was narrow, but not by any means unin- 
teresting. Nor was he at all unusual. Most of the 
blacks are well versed in this sort of lore, and in a 
simple way the field, the forest, and the air serve them 
for the information and entertainment which most of us 
go to books to gain. 

The labor of the families who depended on the cotton 
patches for a living did not seem to me to yield very 
satisfactory returns. Few are able to attain a safe 
prosperity, and poverty stalks along behind most, ever 
threatening to drag them off their little holdings. Such 
conditions were often revealed to me by my chance 
acquaintances. For instance, I one day stopped a negro 
who was driving a farm cart through the spring mud of 
the highway and asked directions. While we were 
talking a colored woman came plodding along and 
spoke to the man. "Hit been a long time since I seen 
you, Brother Bealy," said she. "How yo' gittin' on V 

"Well," he replied, "I had a hard expe'ence dis las' 
winter wid de rheumatism; but hit has let up on me 
some now." 



I02 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"Yo' luck sholy have been bad, Brother Bealy," 
said the woman sympathetically. 

"I done met some heavy ole jars, Sister Larkin," he 
admitted. "Las' year de secon' time I been sol' out 
on account er mortgages. Hit quite a th'owback for 
me. I got six chillen an' a wife a-swingin' on top er 
me, an' hit no easy matter to pay my rent and all de 
yuther expenses." 

"Yas, to take keer er yo' fambly, yo' oblige to hit 
hard an' often," was the woman's comment; "but if 
yo' keep up heart, de Lord, He boun' to pull you 
through." 

The man removed his hat and rubbed his head 
thoughtfully. "I gwine to stick to my work long as I 
c'n move," he said; "and I'm gwine to pay all my 
honest debts from a nickel up. God knows I am." 

"Dat right, Brother," the woman responded heartily, 
"an' doan' let any mo' mortgage be put on yo'. Dar's 
a heap er people you an' me have knowed roun' hyar 
have got in debt till dey owed two or three hundred 
dollars, an' den dey so discourage dey leP de country. 
Dese lenders keep puttin' on per cent and per cent, an' 
hit jus' nacherly ruins dem dey lends to." 

"Yes," agreed the man, "fifteen per cent and ten 
per cent and de principal, too, been mo' dan a good 
many could stan' under. Dey done all dey could, an' at 
las' dey give up ev'ything but de shirt on der back, an' 
some of 'em pull dat off an' say, 'Hyar, take dat too.' " 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 103 

The man gathered up his reins preparing to drive on. 
"We been havin' pretty tolerable rough weather," said 
the woman. 

"We certain have," was the man's response, "an* 
dat big win' las' night done shook my ole shack till I 
thought de house blow to pieces." 

"Hit took off de las' er de apple bloom," the woman 
added, looking off over the landscape. "De trees look 
now like we have apples to bet on hyar mont' atter 
next. 

"What yo' hear from yo' son in Texas, Sister Lar- 
kin.?" asked the man. 

"I plumb worried about him," she replied. "De 
las' news I heard he got de terrified fever." 

They discussed this typhoid ( .?) fever, and then the 
man resumed his journey. I went on in company with 
the woman. She called my attention to the poor 
repair of the fences along the way, and told about "a no 
fence law" passed a few years before which obliged 
every one to keep their stock from running at large. 
Previously the crops had to be fenced, and the cattle 
and hogs were turned loose and went where they chose, 
and they "pretty nigh picked up der own livin'." But 
this wicked and incomprehensible law made it necessary 
to take care of them and feed them, and that didn't 

pay- 
In concluding her remarks the woman philosophized 
thus: "Times have been; times will be; times wear 



I04 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

out same like ev'ything else. De ways dey use to do 
ain' like de ways dey do now. Dese days, if yo' doan' 
take keer er yo' cattle dey're ketched an' yo' have to 
pay three or fo' dollars to git 'em ag'in." 

The black cotton workers have their troubles, but 
they have their pleasures, too; and one of the chief of 
these pleasures is a debating society. This met every 
Saturday night in a spare room of a certain log cabin. 
The apartment was fitted up with a few benches and 
some boards laid on blocks, and it was pretty sure to 
be packed full. The discussions were very earnest 
and aroused much interest. "Las' Saturday," said a 
member of the society, "de question was, 'Which is de 
bes' beneficial, education or money .^' Three fighted 
fo' education and three fighted fo' money, and education 
whooped. Anudder time we debate, 'Which has de 
deepes' effec' on a person's min', what he see, or what 
he hear.?' Nex' time de question gwine be, 'Which 
done de mos' fo' de people — war or de ministry.?'" 

The negroes found delight in exercising their intellects 
at the debating society; but in the case of the whites, 
nothing appealed quite so strongly as the pleasure of 
satiating their stomachs at a barbecue. "Our barbe- 
cues are the biggest thing yet," I was told. "We most 
always have a neighborhood barbecue in August or 
September, and we have 'em at election speakin's, and 
Sunday-school picnics. When I was a boy we had one 
on the Fourth o' July. Everybody was bound to get 



Cotton Patch Life in Tennessee 105 

done cultivating his corn and cotton by then so as to 
be ready to celebrate. Yes, you'd drive your mule till 
it didn't have any tail to get done by the Fourth. The 
way we fix for a barbecue is to begin to get ready the 
day befo'. The meat is roastin' all night. We have 
plenty of different meats — shoat, calf, kid, and goat, 
and we roast the whole animals. A trench is dug, and 
oak bark coals put in. Then sticks are laid across for 
the meat to rest on. Some white man has charge, but 
the niggers keep the fires goin' an' do the basting 
and the rough work. 

"The next day everybody comes. There's a detail 
to do the carving, and we all step up and get what we 
want and go and sit down by some tree to eat it. Of 
course there's potatoes and cornmeal lightbread, and 
pickles and cake, and there's ice cream, and there's 
pure, genuine, strong coffee that the old ladies make, 
in abundance. Then there's fried chicken, if any one 
is fastidious enough to want it, and some enterprising 
fellow is likely to bring half a dozen bottles of beer and 
invite his special friends out to his buggy to drink it. 
But the best thing to my thinkin' is the shoat. A man 
hasn't got any part in the resurrection until he's eaten 
barbecued shoat." 

The narrator's enthusiasm was quite superlative, 
and I have no doubt that the barbecues for the whites 
and the debating society for the blacks do much to 
brighten an otherwise somewhat sober existence. 



io6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Note. — To see something of rustic Tennessee with ease and comfort 
it is perhaps best to take a good-sized town as a base where one can live 
at a first-class hotel. Rations and housing for the traveller out in the 
country have a somewhat doubtful character. But from any large town 
one can go by train, or drive, and soon get into the cotton country and 
observe the people's homes and their work. Interest largely centres in 
the life one sees, for the landscape of the cotton regions is apt to be 
monotonous and devoid of charm. 




Returning to Camp from the \ im.ac.e 



VI 

TRAVELLING IN ARKANSAW 

THERE is no "Arkansas" in the nomenclature 
of the lower Mississippi valley — at least I never 
heard it until I was as far north as St. Louis. 
However, I understand that the name "Arkansaw" is 
not universally acceptable to the inhabitants of the 
state; and at one time the commonwealth's two sena- 
tors had such decided and opposing preferences on this 
subject that in Congress one was always addressed as 
"the gentleman from Arkansas" and the other as "the 
gentleman from Arkansaw." 

Among the state's immediate neighbors it is custo- 
mary to speak slightingly of conditions across the line, 
and you would gather the impression that life and man- 
ners there were rather cruder than anywhere else in the 
great valley. The outside dwellers take particular 
pleasure in repeating a curious legend known as "The 
Arkansaw Traveller." This tale has been a favorite 
for more than half a century, and, told properly, it has 
a musical accompaniment. Formerly, whenever there 
was a social gathering that included a man with a 
violin, this man was sure to be asked to play "The 

107 



io8 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Arkansaw Traveller"; and the listeners took equal 
delight in the cheery jig of the music and in the medley 
of jokes that went with it. 

*'Well," says the musician, "thar was an old feller 
in Arkansaw who was settin' out in front of his cabin 
on a stool one evenin'. He had his fiddle an' was 
playin' away on this tune." (Plays, but breaks short 
off in the middle.) 

"'Bout that time along comes a traveller ridin' on 
his horse, an' he stops an' says, 'Hello!' 

"'Hello yourself,' says the man. 

"'Can you give me a night's lodging.?' says the 
traveller. 

"The man allowed he couldn't nohow. 'We got no 
room, stranger,' he says. 

"'Can't you make room.f*' the traveller asks. 

"'No, sir,' says the man. 'It might rain.' 

'"And what if it does rain .?' says the traveller. 

"'Why,' the man says, 'that's only one dry spot in 
the house, and me 'n' Sal sleeps on that.' 

"Then he begun sawin' away on his fiddle again." 
(Plays, but stops suddenly, as before.) 

" Everything was terrible tumbledown, and the 
traveller see how leaky the roof was, and he says : 
'Why don't you mend your roof .f*' 

'"When it's pleasant I don't need to,' says the man; 
'and when it rains I can't."' (Plays the tune again half 
way through and stops.) 



Travelling in Arkansaw 109 

" * What makes your corn so yaller ? ' says the traveller, 
lookin' at the field over the fence. 

"*Oh, we plant the yaller kind, hyar,' says the man." 
(Plays the half tune.) 

"'How do your potatoes turn out this season ?' asks 
the traveller. 

"'They don't turn out at all,' says the man. 'We 
have to dig 'em.'" (Plays.) 

"'Whar does this road go to.?' asks the traveller. 

"'It don't go nowhar, stranger,' the man says. 'I 
been hyar an all-fired long time, and that road has 
always stayed right whar it's at.'" (Plays.) 

"'How many years have you lived in this country.?' 
says the traveller. 

"'Do you see that mountain over yender.?' the man 
says. 'Well, that was thar when I come hyar.'" 
(Plays.) 

"'What are you playin' that tune so often for .?' says 
the stranger. 

"'Only heard it yisterday,' says the man. 'I'm 
afraid I'll forgit it.' 

"'Why don't you play the rest of it?' the traveller 
says. 

"'That part is good enough for me,' says the man; 
'and besides, that's all I know.' 

"'Give me the fiddle,' says the traveller. 

"The man handed it to him, and the stranger played 
the whole tune like this." (Plays.) 



no Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"Soon as he begun playin' the second part the man 
jumped up and started to dance, and at the end of the 
tune, he says, 'Walk in, stranger, and stay as long as 
you please. If it rains you c'n sleep on the dry spot. 
Zeke !' he says to his boy, 'put this man's horse in the 
corncrib and stop the door with a haystack. Sal, take 
the grubbin' hoe and go dig some sassafras to make tea 
for the stranger.'" 

I found plenty of people who could repeat the jokes; 
but it was not so easy to discover a fiddler. At last, 
in one of the river towns, a waiter at my hotel gave me 
the address of a colored man by the name of Jack 
Hamilton who he said could play the tune. The address 
took me to a dingy corner saloon frequented wholly by 
negroes. Jack was there, and so was his partner Ed 
Smith, sitting together at one side of the dark> grimy, 
and odorous room. Jack was black as a coal. Ed 
was a mulatto, with handsome features and a touch of 
refinement and poetry about his slender figure that 
seemed incongruous in such a place. He played his 
violin with great facility and charm, and Jack's accom- 
paniment on the guitar was spirited and pleasing. 
Jack sat stiff and upright with his brows twisted, and 
a far-away look in his eyes, and a cigar stump cocked 
up in the corner of his mouth. Some of the hangers- 
on of the saloon gathered about to listen to the 
music. Others continued with their drinking and 
noisy talking. As to the melody, it was a quick reel 



Travelling in Arkansaw 1 1 1 

tune, lively and attractive, and I did not wonder at 

its popularity. 

One of my first stops in Arkansaw was at a sawmill 
village in the woods. The forest was being worked up 
into barrel material, and all day the place resounded with 
the buzz and whir of machinery and the shrill, ravenous 
notes of the saws. It was a strange little hamlet that 
gathered about the mill - a settlement of forest-wreck- 
ers devoid of the least touch of beauty. The land was 
low and level, and puddles and pools and shallow ponds 
abounded, but these would gradually dry away as the 
season advanced. The schoolhouse was m the middle 
of one of the larger ponds, and several hnes of boards 
were laid along on blocks and stumps to the building. 
These improvised bridges were common all through the 
village Everywhere was scattered rubbish from the 
mill -sawdust and slabs and fragments of boards. 
The houses were small and rude, and looked like tempo- 
rary shelters, which perhaps they were; for when the 
mill has finished its devastation, and its devourmg saws 
are silent, most of the population will move away. 

On the outskirts of the hamlet were several little 
farms carved out of the wilderness. Just how to get 
to them I was in doubt. I went through a village door- 
yard, and climbed the back fence, crossed a pasture, 
cUmbed another fence, and found myself in a slough 
where water so abounded that I was tempted to retreat^ 
But the ground was strewn with a chaotic mass of brush 



112 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and limbs left behind by the choppers, and this helped 
me over the water shallows and the mud to a big corn 
field amidst a scattering of girdled trees. The field was 
boggy, too, and it was bristled everywhere with withered 
last-year's stalks so that the walking was far from easy. 
However, I continued to pick a way to the farther side, 
where I encountered a man pulling up stalks and gather- 
ing up branches fallen from the girdled trees. He was 
piling these in heaps and burning, them. "I ain't 
gittin' along very well this year," he said. "It's been 
a wet spring, and every time I think o' startin' to work 
it rains. I have to wear my gum boots constant." 

He did not own the land, and one-third of the corn 
he raised and one-fourth of the cotton went to the land- 
lord for rent. The soil was difficult to cultivate, it was 
so heavy, and the crops were uncertain. "The bugs 
and worms git after the cotton," he explained. "Last 
year we had a bug what we call the sharpshooter. It 
come when the bolls was just formin' an' blasted 'em so 
they dried up an' stuck thar hard an' fast." 

The man showed me a better route back than the one 
by which I had come. " Do you see that roof off thar ? " 
he said. "That's on the main road. I'll put you on a 
path and all you need do is to foller it. The building 
you see the roof of pretends to be a grocery; but it's 
'way outside the village, and thar's mighty few goods 
on its shelves. I reckon it's a blind tiger. I've seen 
men goin' to it, and I've seen 'em comin' away, and 



Travelling in Arkansaw 113 

they walk a great deal straighter goin' than they do 



comin 



When I reached the main road I considered con- 
tinuing by it farther out into the country; but it was 
too deeply rutted and watery to encourage travel, and 
I betook myself instead to a tramway that went off 
three miles into the woods, to where trees were being 
felled for the mill. Along this track stout little cars 
went back and forth, two at a time, drawn by a plodding 
mule. The day was quiet and sultry, the sunlight 
flickered through the foliage, the birds sang, the wood- 
peckers clattered on the dead trees, and once I saw a 
king-snake basking in the warmth on an exposed bank. 
This snake was the most gorgeous monster I have ever 
beheld — its entire length of fully a yard being ringed 
with narrow bands of brilliant red, black, and light 
yellow. 

Near the end of the track was a choppers' settlement, 
consisting of a score of structures loosely grouped among 
the trees. They had floors and sides of boards; but 
the roofs were of canvas, put up tent fashion. Such 
construction made it a simple matter to pull them to 
pieces and move them when the vicinity had been 
chopped over. The moving of the homes to be nearer 
the work was necessary every six or seven months. 
The woodsmen had their wives and children with them; 
and there were bevies of pigs and chickens wandering 
about, so that the village was quite domestic. 



114 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The work that interested me most was the herculean 
task of dragging the logs from where they had been felled 
to loading-places beside the track. This was done by 
ox power, four yokes to a team, and even then the bigger 
logs were almost beyond the oxen's strength amid the 
mud and stumps and brush. The creatures seemed 
very willing and patient and intelligent; yet the drivers 
were always pouring forth a torrent of oaths and abuse, 
and cracking the long lashes of their- savage whips with 
reports like pistol shots. Perhaps the string of beasts 
would come to a full stop in some miry pool. Then 
there were exciting times. The driver became volcanic, 
the whip hissed and snapped, and the oxen twisted and 
strained and occasionally voiced their feelings with a 
complaining low. The forward end of the log lay on a 
"lizard," a rude V-shaped sledge about six feet long, 
upturning at the point, and made out of the fork of 
some large tree. The woodland not yet invaded was 
full of giant timber, mostly clean-trunked gum trees, 
pluming out above into the foliage that formed the forest 
roof. Little was left standing when the choppers had 
passed on, save shattered or dead trees and ragged 
sapplings. 

It was nearly sundown when I returned to the village 
around the mill. The only place to get anything to eat 
was at the mill boarding-house, and I was there in the 
washroom when the whistle blew for quitting work. 
The men came flocking in and scrubbed at the sink and 



Travelling in Arkansaw 115 

combed their hair. Afterward they sat or stood around, 
chaffing, smoking cigarettes, and spitting at the stove. 
Pretty soon a man appeared on the porch with a hand 
bell, swung it vigorously a few times, and at that cheer- 
ing signal every one started for the dining room. We 
had a good and hearty supper; but the workers in 
shirt sleeves and overalls did not linger over it. They 
were soon out engaged in a game of ball. The place 
was not very well suited to the sport; for there were 
buildings in the way, and there were stumps and bogs 
and pools, and there were wandering cows and horses 
which the ball sometimes encountered with a resound- 
ing thump, much to their consternation. The ball was 
erratic. It rolled under buildings, or it flew higher and 
put the windows in jeopardy, it went over fences, it 
embedded itself in the mud, and it dropped in the 
ponds and had to be poked after with poles. But 
these vicissitudes did not discourage the players, and 
they kept at the game till the full moon that hung in 
the east above the ragged woodland had changed from 
silver to ruddy gold, and the gloaming had deepened 
into darkness. 

I went away that evening on the train; but a few 
hours later stopped ofi^ at a little town which was a 
trading centre in a prosperous farming country. A 
one-armed man was at the station to take charge of 
such travellers as wanted a lodging-place, and he 
piloted us up a rough hillslope toward the town's only 



Ii6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

hotel. Somewhere a calf was bleating, and we heard 
a whippoorwill singing. "That's the first whippoorwill 
that's turned up this spring," said the one-armed man. 
"I reckon winter's broke." 

Our guide took us to a two-story wooden hostelry, 
"Delmonico's" by name, "Strictly Firstclass." In the 
dingy office, with its dim kerosene lamp and rusty stove, 
were about as many men as the apartment would hold, 
some playing cards at a small table, some merely talk- 
ing, and all smoking. The landlord was in a brown 
study, trying to figure out where he would put his guests. 
They were so numerous that they could not have a bed 
apiece, and some objected to sleeping double. It was 
late, and I was ready to agree to almost anything. So 
he sent me with another man into a dirty little corner 
room, where we occupied a bed that creaked dismally 
at the least provocation, and the night was far from 
satisfactory. 

In the morning, after breakfast, I looked around the 
premises in an effort to discover why the hotel was 
called "Delmonico's — Strictly Firstclass." The yard 
was a gritty slope of stone and gravel, with a speckling 
of grass growing on it, and bestrewn with sticks, tin 
cans, old shoes, and similar litter. Beyond its narrow 
confines the hillside was piled with telegraph poles and 
shaggy cedar fence posts. At the rear was a barren 
fenced-in space that served as a poultry ranch, cow 
yard, and pig-pen, and a depository for wood piles and 



Travelling in Arkansaw 117 

for rubbish in great variety. All the neighboring back- 
yards were put to much the same uses. 

Near the hotel were ten or twelve stores, mostly in 
narrow one-story brick blocks, and the place also had 
its bank, its newspaper, and its photograph gallery, the 
proprietor of which described his art as that of "catch- 
ing shadows." Business was dull in town and would be 
until fall. From March to October the farmers have 
little cash, and during this period they very generally 
"go on tick" at the stores, and do not buy at all freely. 
In carrying these accounts the stores either put on an 
extra price or charge ten per cent interest. When the 
crops begin to be marketed the farmers settle old 
scores and make more liberal purchases, but by sprmg 
most of the produce has been turned into cash, and the 
cash spent. If the crops fail there are dubious times 
all around. The farmers cannot pay what they owe 
nor buy more, and the merchants cannot collect or sell, 
and every one has to pinch and economize till nature is 
once more bountiful. 

The country roundabout the town flowed away in 
pleasant hills and hollows for I know not how far. The 
fields were ample and rich and well-cultivated, and the 
winding streams delightful. My longest walk was an 
all-day ramble off westward. The air was very still 
and mild, and the soft blue sky was unsullied by a 
single cloud. I could hear voices, the low of cattle, 
and the crowing of cocks for a long distance; and with 



Ii8 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

these domestic sounds was mingled the whistle of the 
quails, the cooing of turtle-doves, the cluck of black- 
birds, the tapping of the "whickers" or yellowhammers, 
and the clatter and songs of many other birds. 

The highway for some distance followed the valley 
of a creek — an innocent-looking stream with quiet 
pools and rippling rapids ; but which evidently had its 
spells of savagery, for the ground on either side was 
much torn and furrowed by floods.. All the space it 
rampaged over was abandoned to it and to the road, 
and this space was often very wide. The stream 
wandered wilfully to right and left with many a turn, 
and the road was continually crossing it. Nowhere 
was there any bridge, and in high water it must have 
been impassable, even for tearris. Beside some of the 
fords was an irregular line of stepping-stones, but many 
of these stones were precariously unstable and over- 
flown by the water. Most crossings, however, had no 
aids other than a few sticks or a dead branch some foot 
traveller had thrown in. 

Along the creek grew great sycamores, "ellums," and 
gum trees, misty-green with tender, new-starting foliage. 
The half-wild highway was common pasturage for cows 
and pigs, and a pleasure-ground for boys and fishermen. 
The boys fished, too; but that was only a small part of 
their fun. The streamside was to them enchanted land, 
a place for dreaming, for new discoveries, for flowers and 
birds and other things of youthful interest. I talked 




The Fishermen 



Travelling in Arkansaw 119 

with some of the boys — honest-eyed little fellows in 
ragged and patched overalls. They showed me the 
swimming-hole, and farther up the creek pointed out 
a pool where lurked a veteran pike, too wise to be caught, 
that was a foot and a half long; and they told me about 
the suckers and eels and trout, and about "the little 
topwaters, which stay near the surface and take your 

bait." 

One pause that I made during the morning was at a 
cemetery on a prominent slope by the roadside. It was 
a large, ragged plot abounding in stumps, and growing 
up to thin grass, weeds, and bushes. Here and there 
were straggling flowers. Some graves were unmarked, 
and others had only rough fragments of native stone. 
Often the family lots were fenced in, but most of the 
fences were broken and half-fallen. Narrow boards 
were the common fence material; but there were 
several lots enclosed with pickets so that they resembled 
miniature hen yards. Frequently the single graves were 
fenced. Some had fence rails laid up around them, one 
was enclosed by great posts set snug to each other Hke 
palisades, and two or three were roofed over with rude 
little shanties. This unkempt, neglected ground of the 
dead looked strangely out of place among the clean 
fields about. 

Noon came and I stopped for dinner at a log-cabin 
off on a byway. An old man and woman and their 
daughter constituted the family. The man had been 



I20 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

furrowing out a field for corn with a little bull-tongue 
plough, and his daughter had been dropping the seed. 
He complained that the lower half of the field was as yet 
too wet for planting, and he reckoned he would have 
to shoot the corn into the mud with a gun. He was also 
disturbed because the field was inclined to be weedy, 
and later would abound in "cuckle burs." 

The house was quite primitive, and consisted of one 
room, a shed, a porch, and "a mud and stick chimney." 
I could see light through numerous cracks in the walls 
as I sat at the table. There were two beds in the room, 
and a meagre supply of other furniture. Chairs were 
not at all plentiful, and the man ate dinner sitting in a 
creaking rocker, and the girl sat on a three-legged stool. 
We had pokeweed and sour-dock greens with fat pork, 
corn-bread, oats boiled with sugar, and lastly a vinegar 
pie. Some of these things were not at all bad, but my 
palate rebelled at the pie. For drink we had both 
coffee and buttermilk. The latter was in a jar on the 
table, and the members of the family dipped and drank 
several cupfuls. 

The woman did her cooking over a rickety stove that 
troubled her by smoking when the wind was in the east. 
During the winter, the fire in the fireplace was kept 
constantly going, and she cooked over that. "If you 
have a good skillet," she added, "meat is better fried in 
the fireplace; and fireplace corn-bread is better, too." 

"If people e't corn-bread right smartly the way they 



Travelling in Arkansaw I2i 

did years ago, they wouldn't need so many pills," 
affirmed the man, 

"Me 'n' my daughter like biscuit," averred the 
woman ; "but flour's so high I don't make 'em only once 
a day." 

After dinner we adjourned to the porch, and the man 
took a chew and the woman lit her pipe. She said a 
good many women used snufF; but she didn't believe 
in it and told about a neighbor who recently died. "She 
was a great hand for snuff," said my hostess, "and I'm 
satisfied it caused her death. She jus' sucked it down 
her windpipe and it clogged her lungs." 

I said something about the inconvenience of getting 
mail off on that byway, but they responded they never 
had any mail. Still, they would have preferred being 
on the big road, especially in the months of frost and 
snow. "We have a tolerable rough winter hyar," 
said the woman. 

"What work is there to do then .f"' I inquired. 

"We split oak rails for our fences and garden pal- 
ings," the man answered, "cut cordwood, and cle'r 
land." 

They were early settlers, and the man told how his 
folks came from Illinois about 1850. "I was goin' on 
fifteen," he said, "and pretty well grown. We had a 
pair of steers hitched to a covered wagon. It was a 
long journey, and sometimes we'd git the chills an' have 
to lay up a while." 



122 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"We hadn't no doctor's medicine then," said the 
woman ; " but we'd git things out of the woods — black 
root, bur-vine root, wild cherry, dogwood — I can't 
name over all the weeds an' things my pap use to git. 
Mother'd dry 'em an' fix 'em up to take when we 
needed 'em." 

"Yes," said the man, "we use to do a heap of our 
own doctorin' thataway. To break up the chills we'd 
go to bed and drink something hot and cover up head 
and years to throw us into a sweat. Boneset tea was 
good, and so was dog fennel, and walnut bark. The 
walnut bark we'd boil down till it was pitchy and make 
pills, or we'd take the bark and slap her on the front of 
the wrist where the nerve is to draw a blister. We'd 
try lots o' things like that for the chills. 

"This was a wild country when we got hyar. There 
was only half a dozen families in all the region, and 
there was bears and pant'ers a-plenty. They'd steal a 
right smart of sheep and hogs; but when people got 
settled pretty thick around they drove the critters out or 
killed 'em. The last pant'er I knowed of was seen 
seven years ago. It run a nigger four miles down the 
river road, and then he dumb a tree near a chu'ch house 
whar they was havin' a meetin'. The people heard him 
hollerin' thar for his life, and they come hurryin' out 
to see what the matter was, and the pant'er scooted off 
into the woods. Thar ain't no savage animals left, 
but we have a good many wild turkeys and coons, 




The Weather in the Almanac 



Travelling in Arkansaw 123 

'possums and rabbits, and thar's some deer run 
around in the hills." 

"Well," remarked the woman, "even if the danger- 
ous critters are gone, this was a better country to live 
in then than now. The seasons has changed and ever'- 
thing else. We had a heap better rains then and none 
of these dry years when you can't raise hardly anything. 
We use to set fires late in the fall and let 'em run 
through the woods to make feed for the cattle ; but that 
ain't allowed no more, and the leaves and bushes 
smother out the grass." 

"The cattle'd go to the range then in February," 
continued the man, "and in a little while they'd be 
plumb slick. We didn't have to feed 'em more'n three 
months, but now we have to feed 'em mighty nigh six." 

They were old-fashioned people, pioneers by nature, 
and they could not adapt themselves to any but the ways 
of their youth; yet no doubt the changes have nearly 
all been for the better, and this part of Arkansaw seemed 
to me to have genuine pastoral charm. 

Note. — Travellers who wish a closer contact with rural Arkansas than 
they get from the car window would do well to stop at a hotel in 
some large town and make short trips out into the country as the spirit 
moves. Some may, however, prefer to go at once to the lesser places 
and take their chances, as I did. The latter method is more entertain- 
ing, but it has its drawbacks and would not suit every one. The 
country as whole is too featureless to attract sightseers, and yet the 
life has a character of its own and repays acquaintance. 



VII 

LIFE IN THE OZARKS 

THE only portion of the Mississippi valley that 
lifts itself to heights sufficiently lofty to be called 
mountains is in western Missouri. Here are 
the Ozarks. The name has a savage resonance very 
suggestive of the rugged wilderness, and I selected Cedar 
Gap, on the topmost crest, for my destination with eager 
anticipations. But I did not find the romantic region 
of my fancy. There were no mountains, and not even 
cedars or a gap. The gap had been filled across for 
the railroad, and the cedars which formerly "growed in 
the gap" had been cut. As to the mountains, they had 
evidently received their title by grace of contrast with 
the interminable levels that environ them. They are 
merely a vast upheaval of rounded hills, and nowhere do 
they lift into imposing peaks or ridges. However, I 
found the country had an interesting individuality of 
its own, and the pure bracing air, and the pufFs of 
apple bloom in the abounding orchards, made beautiful 
the hillslopes and went far to compensate for the lack 
of wildness. 

Cedar Gap Village, where I made my home for the 

124 



Life in the Ozarks 125 

time being, was very small and very rustic. Storekeep- 
ing was the chief industry. There were no less than 
six tiny emporiums, while the hamlet did not contam 
above a score of dwellings. The one street was littered 
with tin cans and papers, and on its margin were 
occasional woodpiles, farm wagons, and similar en- 
cumbrances. A scattering of teams and saddled horses 
was usually hitched to the wayside posts. One con- 
spicuous feature of the village was a barn close to the 
highway that was pasted over with gay posters announc- 
ing that a travelling show was coming. The show was 
to be in a tent, "admission twenty cents, children under 
ten years half price, reserved seats ten cents extra." 
There was nothing mild and insipid about it; for the 
posters said, "You'll laugh, you'll yell, you'll scream 
with delight — a hurricane of fun, a whirlwind of 
amusement, a blizzard of mirth — doors open at 7 — 
trouble at 8 o'clock sharp." 

The hotel was simply a two-story dwelling. The 
front of its piazza was even with the street walk and 
had a low picket fence around the edge to keep the 
children from tumbling off, and to prevent stray cows 
or pigs from walking up on it. There was a gate in 
this fence opposite the front door, fastened with a 
halter snap; and the inconvenience of the fastenmg 
was such that the male habitants of the hotel generally 
stepped over the gate rather than trouble to open it. 
Most of the outlying farms were off on brushy 



126 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

byways, and the farm homes in themselves and their 
surroundings were marked by a good deal of careless 
neglect. You would naturally conclude the owners 
were unthrifty and made no more than a bare living; 
but this I was told was not so. Many of them had 
money laid away. They were not ambitious to have a 
fine house or make a show and outdo the neighbors. 
They had been used to frugal living and with it were 
content. 

Often the homes were linked to each other and the 
village by obscure paths through the woods and fields, 
and I liked to follow these paths across the "breaks," 
as the steep forest hollows are called. It was ideal 
spring weather. The sky was clear, there was a gentle, 
beneficent warmth, and all the world of vegetation was 
putting off the winter lethargy, bursting buds and un- 
furling leaves and blossoms. Butterflies flitted about, 
insects buzzed and frolicked, and lively little lizards at 
my approach scurried with a sudden rustle through the 
dry leaves to the shelter of stump or fence. May- 
apples, violets, and anemones were in flower, brighten- 
ing the undergrowth; and occasionally I came across 
thorny clusters of wild crab trees crowded with blushing 
bloom. Cattle were feeding in the woodland, and I 
often encountered a little group of them and always 
was within hearing of the irregular tink-a-link of the 
cow-bells. 

The chief highway of the region passed a mile or two 



Life in the Ozarks 127 

east of the village. It was a main travelled road from 
Arkansaw to the northwest, and one day I was surprised 
and delighted to meet on it a caravan of white-topped 
wagons — veritable prairie schooners, with two entire 
families and the dogs and poultry emigrating to new 
homes. How like a vision of the past ! The caravan 
had paused at the top of a rise to rest the horses, and 
when I drew near the patriarch of the tribe said, 
"Howdy," to me. "This hyar is a rough road," he 
added — "jolt and thump all the time; but I reckon 
the kind o' shake we been gittin' hyar is better for your 
liver than the kind we been havin' in the bottoms whar 
we come from. The children had got the color of a 
Yankee punkin with the malaria, and I thought it was 
time to leave." 

At a farmhouse where I stopped later, I mentioned 
meeting these people, and the woman of the house said : 
"They were travellers. That's what we call 'em, and 
that's what they call themselves. Sometimes several 
wagons pass in a day; but they ain't so numerous as 
they used to be. Two years ago last fall we counted 
twenty-eight o' those covered wagons that went by hyar 
in one day. I've seen six or seven of 'em all in a string. 
Sometimes the people have cows a-leadin', and a calf 
in the wagon. They go all times of the year, but 
ginerally when a man wants to move thataway he pulls 
out in the fall when he can find plenty of corn along 
the road and live off the country. A good many of 



128 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

the travellers are like the bums on the railroad. They 
understand the ropes and how to strike the ole settlers 
for what things they need without spendin' nothin'. 
They camp at night in the timber and help themselves 
to rails off your fences to burn; and it ain't much 
trouble to git their horse feed free. All they got to do is 
to slip over into a field and fill a bag with corn. Then 
the children run hyar and yender, to beg a little milk 
and a little bread and such like. People don't often 
take pay. It don't look generous, and if pay is offered 
they say, 'Oh, never mind the money. It's only a little 
we've given you. 'Tain't worth talkin' about.' 

"Thar was a woman traveller told my ole man 
the other day that she and her family had been nine 
years in a w^agon and never had stopped to settle yet; 
and I allow that most of 'em are folks that ain't quite 
satisfied nowhar. The good place is always just 
ahead, you know. Yes, they're shifty people — kind 
of an idle, gypsy set, though they're clever enough and 
good talkers. Some of 'em are well off and are on the 
lookout for bargains. They will buy a farm or a piece 
of town property if it can be got cheap, and then when 
they have a favorable chance sell it. But they are apt 
to be short up for money. Some of 'em travel in the 
middle of winter and the snow knee deep. They'll 
have a stove in the wagon with a fire in it and the stove- 
pipe stuck out through the canvas. 

" I wa'n't raised in this country. We used to live in 



Life in the Ozarks 129 

the upper part of the state, and while we was thar they 
had a bad year in Kansas — no rain and everything e't 
up by grasshoppers. That set the travellers all goin' 
east, and every man, when we ask him, say he was gom' 
to his wife's folks in loway. It got to be terribly 
amusin' after a while, and we made a regular ole 
rhymed song about it. We had a dry season whar 
we was, too. There wa'n't any rain from the 13th 
of June till sometime in October. We owned about a 
dozen head of cattle and seven horses, and we had 
to draw water for 'em five miles. Our corn wouldn't 
ripen the ears, and we cut it and put it in shocks for 
fodder." 

As I rose to leave, the woman went to the door and 
shading her eyes from the sunlight looked for some 
moments at a man passing along the road on horse- 
back. "That's Grandpap Carver, I'm confidenced," 
she remarked. "Last I knew he was sick. This is 
trading day, and he's got a basket on his arm and is 
carryin' his eggs and butter up to the village. Satur- 
day, some one from every family has to go to the village 
to carry the small truck we have to sell and buy what 
is needed. I usually send the children. They walk; 
but if I go I have a team. Things ain't bringin' as 
much as they did one while. Eggs have been as high 
as twenty-five cents a dozen, and butter twenty cents 
a pound. Now we only get fifteen cents for butter, or 
ten cents if we sell to a neighbor. Eggs are sixteen 



130 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

cents, and 'tain't likely we'll be gittin' that much longer. 
I've known 'em to go down to four cents." 

That it was a trading day was quite apparent when I 
returned to the village. The place was not exactly 
lively, but an unusual number of people were hanging 
about the stores and the sidewalks, and this continued 
'to be the case till late in the evening. However, after 
sundown, there was less trading than visiting going on in 
the stores, and if you looked in you were likely to see by 
the light of the dim kerosene lamps little groups of 
slouchy men, with rough clothing and misshapen hats, 
talking and smoking as they sat or lounged on counters, 
chairs, and boxes. 

It was customary in the neighborhood to have fre- 
quent "singings." The young people assemble at one 
home or another for the purpose nearly every Saturday 
night. This time the musically inclined gathered at a 
small dwelling next door to the hotel. The house was 
packed, and for two hours I heard the participants 
singing Gospel Hymns with loud, uncultured, un- 
abashed voices. 

I listened to more of the same kind of singing the 
next day at a church I attended in a good-sized town a 
few miles distant. A chorus of about twenty gathered 
around a cabinet organ, and how they did sing ! There 
was no lack of energy. They stood up and opened 
their mouths and shouted. Modulation and delicacy 
were beyond their ken. They enjoyed singing, and the 




CQ 



Life in the Ozarks 13 ^ 

people in the pews enjoyed hearing them and had not a 
suspicion of the crudity. Their earnestness and vigor 
were attractive; but those hard metalHc tones gave 
one's sensibihties a jarring, and I wanted to stop my 

ears and run. 

The preacher, too, was a man of noise rather than of 
refined perceptions; and he had something also of the 
dramatic and sentimental about him. Often he became 
decidedly frenzied and would thrash around with his 
arms in red-faced, sweating fervor and have to mop his 
features with his handkerchief. One of his assertions 
was that all the great business men of the country were 
persistent church-goers. "There is Mr. Rockefeller," 
said he, "who is worth billions. Nothing would keep 
him from going to church short of putting him in the 
penitentiary." 

"And that's just where he ought to be," whispered a 
belligerent-looking man in front of me, to himself. 

The minister preached what the Ozarks folks call 
"a graveyard sermon." He worked on the feelings of 
his auditors cruelly, and made some of the women cry. 
Among other things he told with great detail the story 
of Abraham's preparations to sacrifice Isaac, and 
Hngered especially over the father with knife in hand 
ready to "cut his son's throat." It was barbaric and 
horrible. Of course he made some good points ; but 
as a whole the service was pretty harassing, and I was 
glad when it ended and I could escape into the mild 



132 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

outer sunshine. Even then I was not in "the Elysian 
fields," to quote a phrase of the preacher's; for a skunk 
had visited the neighborhood and perfumed it most 
thoroughly, and the worshippers hastened along the 
board walks making comments that had nothing to do 
with the sermon. 

There were five churches in the town, but some were 
only open once a month, and none oftener than every 
other Sunday. They were all weaklings, and to an 
outsider it seemed as if they were exalting denomina- 
tionalism above Christianity, 

I have spoken of the place as "good-sized," but that 
was only by comparison with other communities In the 
region. The streets, though wide and regular, were 
nearly overgrown with grass, except in the very centre 
of the village where the stores were. The stores 
fronted toward a large, open square which was a desert 
of stumps; but young trees had been started, and it 
would perhaps sometime be an oasis of shadowed 
lawn. The pigs rambled and investigated singly and 
in groups about the municipal thoroughfares and did 
the city scavenging. They were lean, lanky creatures 
of the variety known as razorbacks, and some of them, 
as one man said, "had noses long and slender enough 
to drink out of a jug." The city dwellings were nearly 
all of the cottage type, and few attained to a second 
story. Many of them were set on blocks and had no 
cellars. Trees were plentiful, but none were large 



Life in the Ozarks 133 

enough to have dignity and impressiveness. The place 
was still infantile, and many years would have to pass 
before it acquired repose and charm. 

I walked out into the country and found lodging for 
a few days at a log house in a glen among the hills. 
The soil in this vicinity was thin and full of flinty rocks, 
and the woodland on the slopes was ragged and un- 
thrifty; but in the bottoms the stones are laboriously 
picked off^ the meadows and you find pleasant tracts 
of green. Near where I lodged several fine springs 
welled forth unceasingly their crystal fountains, and 
the water formed pretty little "branches" that wandered 
away through the grasslands and cultivated fields. Here 
and there amid the shrubbery that bordered the rivulets 
I saw the white blossoms of the wild plums and haws, 
and still more noticeable were the frequent red-bud 
bushes, every twig loaded with pink bloom. At a 
certain turn of the road, a half mile from my dwelling- 
place, was a level bit of grass convenient to a stream 
where the "travellers," with theircanvas-toppedwagons, 
often camped for the night. The charred coals and 
remnants of their fires, the husks of corn left over from 
feeding the horses, and some empty tin cans, showed 
plainly their recent presence. 

Log houses were plentiful, and some of them were 
new. To erect one was no great task or expense. A 
man could get the logs ready himself, and then he would 
invite the neighbors to the house-raising. The usual 



134 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

dimensions are fourteen by sixteen feet. "A pretty good 
working crowd will hoist the logs into place and get roof 
and all done in a day; but if too many gassers are 
there, and they put in a lot of time tellin' stories, it 
may take another day." 

I noticed that one local cabin had no windows. Its 
eight inmates were a family of ne'er-do-wells, who, 
rather than exert themselves to cut a window opening, 
preferred to light a lamp when cold -or storms obliged 
them to keep the door shut. The children went bare- 
foot all winter, and they were said to live largely on 
bread and molasses and wild onions ; and yet they 
seemed healthy, and the smallest girl was declared to 
be, "jis' as fat as you ever saw a little pig in your 
life." 

Another building that interested me was a white 
schoolhouse on a hilltop. It was set well back in a 
stony yard, with thin oakwoods roundabout ruddy 
with the first hints of new leafage. There was no 
fence, and often as many hogs, sheep, and cows were 
around the building as children. The outer appear- 
ance of the schoolhouse was not bad except that the 
door was cracked and rickety, and nearly one-fourth 
of the window lights were broken. It was set on 
blocks, and sometimes the wandering hogs slept under 
it at night, or reposed there in the heat of the day while 
the school was in session. The worst of this was that 
they left their fleas behind, and there were times when 




Going to Market 



Life in the Ozarks 135 

the teacher and scholars had distressing experiences 
with the vermin. 

The interior was decidedly dingy, with unpainted, 
sheathed walls, and the floor dirty and littered. There 
were two rows of long desks with seats attached to the 
front, and each seat could be made to hold five or six 
pupils by squeezing, and would give comfortable accom- 
modation for four. The desks were made of splintery 
hemlock boards, and were much marked with chalk, 
pencils, and ink by idling occupants. One or two were 
gone entirely to smash and the fragments lay in a rear 
corner. A big rusty stove, with the name "Solid Com- 
fort" in raised letters on either side, stood in the middle 
of the room, and a wobbly stovepipe connected it with 
the chimney. The stove had seen hard times. One 
leg was broken and had been pieced out with half a 
brick, and a stout wire encircled the entire stove just 
under the rim to keep the sides from caving out. 

For the teacher there was a rude little table, ham- 
mered together by some farmer. No chair accom- 
panied it, though one had originally been supplied by 
the school authorities; but it had gradually become 
very decrepit. In its last days it had lost its back, and 
to supply this deficiency the teacher when she used it 
would place it against the wall. After it finally went 
to entire ruin, the teacher "either fetched one herself or 
did without." 

It was not thought worth while to put a lock on the 



136 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

door, because it would be soon broken; for the boys 
liked to go in there evenings and Sundays "to tear 
around." Often tramps took possession for the night, 
built a fire in the stove, and made themselves at home. 
School began some time in August and kept continu- 
ously for twenty-four weeks. The first half of the period 
attendance was good; but the long term became weari- 
some and many dropped out later. The school might 
start with thirty or forty pupils and end with ten. 

One evening we had a long talk about schools at my 
boarding-place. I had sat down in the best room. 
The sagging uneven floor was half covered by a rag 
carpet, and the walls were pasted over with newspapers. 
In one corner was a bed and at its foot was a cot bed. 
In all the houses of the region beds were a conspicuous 
article of furniture. Few rooms were without at least 
one, usually from necessity, but in part from force of 
habit. People of means put a bed in the parlor just 
as their neighbors did, even when the house was large 
and it could easily have been spared. 

The weather was chilly, and Mr. Doten, the man of 
the house, brought in some coals on a shovel from the 
kitchen stove and put them in the fireplace. Then he 
knelt dow^n on the rough hearth, laid on some kind- 
lings, and encouraged a blaze by wafting his cap. The 
fire soon flamed up brightly and began to eat away at 
the backlog, and the whole room was lit up with its 
fitful glow. "I tell you this fire keeps me busy in the 



Life in the Ozarks 137 

winter," said the man. "We use a two-horse load of 
wood a week. But that wood warms a fellow twice — 
once outdoors cutting it up and again in here burning." 

He had seated himself in a rocking-chair to enjoy 
the heat and smoke his pipe. The man's grandson, a 
little boy in overalls and cowhide boots, had lounged 
down on the convenient cot bed and was watching the 
flames. The man wore boots, too. This was partly 
because the soil of the country was full of flints, that were 
very destructive to light footwear, and partly on account 
of ticks. "You're bound to get acquainted with them 
ticks in summer," explained the man; "and there's 
a little kind of a bug we call jiggers that's worse still." 

Presently Mrs. Doten and her daughter came in. 
The family had moved from Iowa a few years before, 
because, as Mrs. Doten said, "It didn't agree with our 
health there. When you woke up in the morning 
you were tired and had a bitter taste in your mouth. 
Besides, wood was scarce. That's what broke me of 
roastin' my own coff"ee. I only made a fire when I 
had to." 

The daughter was a school-teacher. "We tried to 
get Jenny the school here," said Mrs. Doten, "when 
we first come; but they didn't think she was strong 
enough, and they jis' got somebody no account to beat 
and thump, and who didn't learn the scholars a thing. 
You see each district has three directors to manage the 
schools, and some of 'em don't know beans. There's 



138 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

school directors that can't read or write; and often 
they'll never visit the school the w^hole year through." 

"Where I was last year," said Jenny, "I had to wait 
quite a while for my pay because the president of the 
directors was in jail for gambling." 

"How much are teachers paid.^" I asked. 

"From twenty-five to forty dollars a month," was 
Jenny's reply; "and out of that comes our expense for 
board, sometimes only five dollars a month, sometimes 
as much as seven and a half. One thing a teacher is 
expected to do is to go once during the year to each home 
that sends children and stay over night. You have to 
do it or the people feel slighted and think you are proud. 
You get into some pretty poor houses. I've been where 
the snow fell through holes in the roof on to the table 
while we were eating; and I've been where the whole 
family slept in one room. 

"Everyone judges your work at school by the order 
you keep, whether the children learn anything or not. 
I almost lost my reputation one year through a girl 
who wouldn't mind; and if I tried to use force she 
would scratch and fight. Finally the directors came 
in and turned her out, and then the rest of the children 
in that family left, too. 

"The studies we make the most of are spelling and 
arithmetic. The people go wild about those. We 
always used to have a head and a foot to the spelling 
class, and whoever stood at the head when the day 




h 



Life in the Ozarks 139 

ended received a credit and began at the foot the next 
day. On the last day of the term the scholar who had 
the most headmarks was given a prize. But that cus- 
tom is gradually going out. There's one girl in this 
district has studied her spelling book so much she spells 
page after page without having a word pronounced for 
her; yet she's not much in anything else. We often 
have spelling-downs in the school, and you need only 
ask, 'Who wants to choose up .f' — Who wants to be 
captain.?' — to have half a dozen calling out, *Me.' 
They like to cipher down, too. That's done on nearly 
the same plan as the spelling contests. Sides are 
chosen, and the last one in each company goes to the 
board, the teacher gives an example, and they figure as 
fast as they can. The one that gets done first beats and 
the other is out of the game. The next child from the 
side of the beaten one steps to the board and a second 
example is given. So the contest goes on until all on 
one side are beaten. 

"Some time during the term we have a school enter- 
tainment. Perhaps it will be a box supper, and each 
lady will bring a box filled with a nice lunch. Her 
name is inside, and all the boxes are put together, and 
then each man buys a box for fifteen cents. When 
he looks inside he may trade boxes with some other 
man." 

"That's not because he don't like the grub," inter- 
rupted Mr. Doten; "but he'd rather have some other 



140 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

lady. You see he has to take the one whose name is in 
his box and eat the lunch with her." 

"I like the pie suppers best," said Mrs. Doten. 
" Each lady brings a pie with her name on the bottom, 
and the pies are sold for ten cents apiece. There's 
all kinds — apple, peach, blackberry, sorrel, pumpkin, 
sweet potato, and I don't know what." 

"The proceeds are used for buying a dictionary or 
books for the school library," continued the teacher, 
"or a new blackboard or an organ. Besides the eat- 
ing, there's a short programme. A stage has been built 
at one end of the schoolroom on as small a plan as 
possible, and the scholars get up there and have their 
recitations, singing, and dialogues. The room is sure 
to be crowded, all the seats full and some persons 
standing. A good many come early — even an hour 
beforehand — to make sure of a good place to sit." 

"They have another great time last day of school,'* 
remarked Mr. Doten. 

"Yes," said the teacher, "and the children come in 
the morning dressed in their best. Sometimes we have 
a big dinner at the schoolhouse. The patrons bring all 
sorts of good things to eat, and after dinner, perhaps 
the children spell down, and there's speeches. The 
pupils make the teacher a present of an inkstand, 
album, card tray, or something of the sort; and she has 
to supply a treat of candy for them. I usually get a 
pailful — twenty-eight pounds. Then I have to put 



Life in the Ozarks 141 

it up in bags or boxes, a half pound for each scholar, 
and what is left is passed around among the visitors. 
If you didn't buy that candy the children'd feel terribly 
insulted, and think you were the stingiest old thing 
that ever was." 

"We have the biggest crowd at our schoolhouse when 
there's a spelling-down between our scholars and those 
of some other district," said Mrs. Doten. 

"I don't know about that," Mr. Doten commented. 
"I've seen it packed fullest when we was havin' pro- 
tracted meetin's." 

It seemed that these meetings were revivals of re- 
ligion, and there had been three series the previous 
winter, each under a different minister, and each con- 
tinued from evening to evening for about two weeks. 
"People come for miles," said Mr. Doten, "and the 
warmer the meetin's get the more they come. A good 
many are there jis' to see the fun, same as they'd go to 
a dog fight or a horse race. The minister does all he 
can to have an excitement, and when he sees people's 
feelin's are all worked up he begins to clap his hands 
and shout, 'Bless God! Bless God!' over and over 
again." 

"You never saw anything like it," added the teacher. 
"The people will laugh and cry and scream and holler, 
and it's as good as a circus. They walk around and 
are hystericky as can be. I remember how one old 
man last winter wagged his head and snivelled and 



142 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

squealed and looked real idiotic. If he had been my 
father and cut up Hke that I'd have slunk off home." 

"It's what I call a 'distracted' meetin'," said Mrs. 
Doten, "they make such a big fuss. You can't tell 
what they say; but they're havin' what they speak 
of as 'a good time.' After the service the minister 
calls for 'seekers' or 'mourners' to come up in front; 
and friends of the unconverted will go about in the 
audience and talk to those they think ought to re- 
spond to the minister's call; and if they have a strong 
will they'll get those to the mourners' bench that didn't 
want to be there at all. Then one o' the local men will 
get down to pray and say, 'We ax thee, Lord, to reveal 
thyself to these poor sinners,' and such things, and 
some of the seekers will stand up and make a profession 
and say a few words. The persons that get religion at 
such times are mostly women and girls, and perhaps a 
few young boys not over fifteen or sixteen years old, 
and they generally backslide and are ready for the 
next big meetin'." 

"Well, the preachers make a good thing out of it," 
said Mr. Doten. "I know the Methodist minister that 
come here was paid eighteen dollars in money and given 
twenty-five dollars' worth of provisions. The provisions 
and part of the cash was begged for him around at the 
houses, and the rest of the money was got in the two 
Sunday collections." 

"I didn't like him," was the teacher's comment. 




Beside ihk Kiichen Fire 



Life in the Ozarks 143 

"That's because he claimed the girls would go to 
hell if they had beaus to and from service," responded 
Mr. Doten. "He said they thought so much about 
the fellers that was goin' to take 'em home they didn't 
listen to the sermon." 

"These meetings pretty nearly ruin the schoolhouse," 
said the teacher. "We had a prayer-meeting where I 
taught last year, and the room was in such a condition 
the next morning I sent the smaller children home, 
and then I had the older ones get water and we scrubbed 
out. There was tobacco juice all over the floor and on 
the desks and stove and in the water pail." 

"Yes," corroborated Mrs. Doten, "they spit till I 
wish I had an umbrella. I have to gather up my 
skirts, for there'll be great pools, and you need a boat 
to get out." 

"In the town churches there's a fine for chewing 
and spitting on the floor," said Mr. Doten. 

"I like to chew gum," remarked the boy, who was 
now sitting on a stool near the fire, knife in hand, 
making a corncob pipe for his "grandpaw"; "but our 
teacher won't let us chew it in school time. We chew 
at recess, and when we come in we stick it on the stop- 
pers of our ink bottles. If we keep it in our mouths 
she makes us throw it in the stove." 

"Some of the young men that chew gum put theirs, 
when not in use, behind one of their ears," observed 
the teacher. 



144 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"But for downright greenness," said Mrs. Doten, 
"you ought to see the young fellers and their sweet- 
hearts that come from back in the country at the Fourth 
of July picnic in the town. They walk swinging along 
hold of hands like little children. That's their idea of 
courting. Right around here the usual way for a young 
man to court is to call on his girl Sunday evening and 
sit by the fire with her after the old folks have gone to 
bed. They are great hands, too, for corresponding 
even when they live not more than three or four miles 
apart. Often they go for a buggy ride on Sunday after- 
noon. Some think it ain't quite proper for lovers to 
ride in the evening. The people here are always sus- 
picious of what they're not used to, and suspicion is a 
bad sort of coin for anybody. One of our best neigh- 
bors is a woman that a good many call a foreignor. 
'She don't talk like other folks,' they say; but she's 
jis' a broad Yankee from Boston. She's real good if 
there's sickness, and is frequently sent for. When she 
gets to the sickroom she takes charge at once and ain't 
at all backward about tellin' what ought to be done. 
I went with her once. A girl was sick, and soon as we 
were in the house she said, 'Goodness alive! we've 
got to clean up some of this dirt, or the girl will die. 
That's what's the matter with her.' 

"So we begun cleanin', and at the same time she 
sent home most of the relatives. They all come if 
any one is seriously sick, the whole outfit of 'em, 



Life in the Ozarks 145 

perhaps twenty or thirty, and sit around in the 
way. 

"Two years ago the Massachusetts woman's mother 
who had been hving with her died, and our people never 
see such a funeral. Talkin' afterward they said, 'Why, 
she never made a bit of fuss. I don't believe she cared 
a cent; and besides, she dressed up like she was goin* 
to a fine dinner.' 

"They thought she showed disrespect. The habit 
here is to go to funerals in your work clothes. Often 
the men wear their overalls. It's the same at the 
country churches — the older men have on overalls and 
the brown duck coats they work in, and the married 
women all wear sunbonnets. The young men dress 
up some, but in warm weather they'll go to meetin' 
without coat or vest," 

"Well," remarked Mr. Doten, "I've seen the preacher 
take off his coat in the middle of his sermon when he 
got warm." 

"The minister has a good long sermon at the fu- 
nerals," Mrs. Doten resumed, "often three-fourths of 
an hour, and I've heard 'em go on for twice that time. 
The near relatives think they got to show how sorrowful 
they feel, and there's lots of rippin' around, cryin', and 
screamin'; and they tell how bad they've been to the 
dead and how they wish they'd been better; and the 
preacher helps that sort o' thing along all he can. If 
there's anything especially distressing or touching about 



146 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

the person's sickness and death he's sure to bring that 
in; for it's supposed to be a credit to him — shows his 
power — the more screechin' there is. I used to have 
a good deal of sympathy for the near relatives of the 
deceased, they seemed to be so overcome at the funerals ; 
but their screechin' is jis' the fashion, and now it don't 
affect me no more than to hear the piggy squealing out 
here. 

"At one funeral last summer a man had lost his wife, 
and when time come for the service he felt so bad he 
didn't want to do anything but wander around outside, 
and 'twas all we could do to get him into the house. 
But he was married again in six months. He could have 
kept a loaf of bread over of his first wife's baking for 
his second wife's eating if he'd had a real good place to 
put it. They always remark and joke about a man that 
don't wait a year after his wife's death." 

"I suppose," said the school-teacher, "that a man 
misses his wife here in the Ozarks more than anywhere 
else in the United States. She does the housekeeping 
and she does a good deal of field work, too. I know I've 
been spending half my time lately dropping corn and 
helping plant potatoes. The women do the milking, 
and they go out sprouting with axe and mattock in the 
fields and pastures, and they pick up loose stones oflF 
the grassland, and do all sorts of jobs. Then there's 
no conveniences around the houses. It's an old say- 
ing, if a woman marries a Missouri man she'll have to 




Making a Hen-coop 



Life in the Ozarks 147 

carry water half a mile up hill all her life, and that's 
about so. Our spring isn't more than three rods from 
the house, but not many famihes are so lucky." 

The little clock soberly ticking on the fireplace 
mantel showed that we were sitting up late for dwellers 
in that region, their habit being to retire early, and 
likewise to get up early. The boy had long ago left 
his knife and the cob pipe he was making and was 
asleep on the cot bed; and now I was shown to my 
apartment, and soon the house was quiet. 

Note. — The Ozarks as mountains have no attractions worth mention- 
ing, but as big, rolling, half- wild hills they are very handsome. Seymour 
is an excellent stopping-place and is near the crest of the ridges. The 
landscape environing the town is commonplace, but the tumbled waves of 
upland are within easy driving distance, and in what you see there, and 
in your contact with the inhabitants, you will find much that is decidedly 
enjoyable. 



VIII 

AT THE MEETING OF THE WATERS 

WHERE the great river from the east joins the 
great river from the north stands Cairo, 
though not exactly in the apex of late years; 
for the Mississippi has moved away somewhat and left 
the town a little up-stream on the Ohio. The place is 
probably not charming at any season, and in the spring 
of the year, when I was there, it was partially flooded 
and appeared decidedly dismal. Dinginess and dirt 
were universal, saloons abounded, parading their doubt- 
ful friendliness under such names as "My Brother's 
Place" and "Uncle Joe's Glad Hand," and the rail- 
roads monopolized the water front, where their engines 
were constantly hissing and hooting and banging about, 
filling the air with gas, soot, and cinders day and night. 
To off'set all this the river itself with its traffic and 
its bankside workers and loiterers is unfailingly pic- 
turesque and interesting. There is no end of steamers 
and scows, rafts and tugs, houseboats and skiffs, 
draymen, roustabouts, and loafers. Here are life and 
variety and excitement, and the townsfolk of the hum- 
bler sort find genuine pleasure in lounging along 




Prospects of a Blackbird Pie 



At the Meeting of the Waters 149 

shore to fish or to lose themselves in drowsy contem- 
plation while they watch the changing scene. The 
waterside people are always ready to talk and to retail 
their opinions and reminiscences, and I had many an 
entertaining chat with them. One of my chance ac- 
quaintances was an old negro accompanied by a little 
boy, and both of them fishing. 

"Some men up and down de river make a livin* 
fishin'," said he; "but I cain't. I have to work. I 
reckoned though I'd put in a little while hyar dis atter- 
noon. Fish are jes' natchul good eatin' dis time er 
year. My wife does most er de fishin'. She goes idle 
times when she ain't washin' or ironin'. Yisterday 
she done got a fish on her line with a haid bigger'n dis 
boy's haid. De fish so big an' strong she say it was 
like pullin' on a log to git it up out er water, an' when 
she see it she was dat skeered she didn't dast to haul it 
to shore. She say she ain' gwine fool wid no such fish, 
an' she was mighty glad when it git off de hook. 

" Dat make me think 'bout de time when I fust come 
to Illinois. I was bred and born and raised up right 
in Richmond. We had all kinds er fish dar. But I 
settled in a town eighteen or twenty miles back in de 
country hyar, an' one day de market man got some 
salt water fish sent him. I was on de street soon atter 
dey arrive, an' I see a big crowd aroun' de market, an' 
I run to fin' out what de matter. I reckoned some- 
body done got killed. But de people was jes' a-lookin* 



150 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

at one er dese hyar flounders. Dey ain' never heard 
tell er nothin' like dat befo' — a fish wid both his eyes 
on one side. De man I worked for was dar, and when 
he see I know de fish he say, 'Is he good to eat?' 
I tol' him dat he shore was, an' he bought him, an' he 
give my ole lady half a dollar to fry dat fish. When 
it was serve on de table, suh, seem like he crazy it taste 
so good. He didn't lose no time sendin' for mo', an' 
atter dat he had flounders as often as-he could git 'em." 

The fisherman paused while he pulled up his line 
and examined his bait. "De fish doan' seem to be 
bitin' to-day," he commented; "and yit ole man Daw- 
son nabbed some big catfish right hyar early in de 
week. I'm sati'fied dey are mo' whar dose come from, 
an' dat what put me in de notion er fishin'." 

Down at the lower end of the town near a great 
elevator that loomed up on the verge of the river, I 
made friends with some people on a houseboat. Their 
little vessel was hitched to the shore, and a plank served 
for passage from land to deck. The boat had two 
rooms, and was occupied by two families, including 
several children, the youngest a tot that could just 
walk, the oldest a boy of ten. The little folks all 
delighted in the river. It afi^orded them endless 
amusement. They threw in sticks and stones, sailed 
toy boats of their own manufacture, they fished and 
splashed and watched the coming and going of the 
river craft, and the older youngsters went out rowing 



At the Meeting of the Waters 151 

in the skiffs. Their life looked adventurous, and it 
was a wonder they did not come to grief a dozen times 
a day. But I could learn of only one serious mishap. 
A week or two previous the boy of ten had fallen off 
the guards; "and I just screamed," his mother ex- 
plained to me. "I couldn't think, and I didn't do a 
thing to help; but my husband was near by and he 
jumped in and pulled the boy out, and that boy never 
even caught a cold because of his ducking." 

Among the rest of the inmates of this boat was a 
colored lad named Billy who did odd jobs for his 
board. I got him to row me down to the mouth of the 
river. He was delighted to go and chuckled as he 
rowed away, for he had gotten rid of washing the 
dishes. He was a boy with a history, though I imagine 
his relation of it was eked out with fiction. His left 
forefinger was missing, and he said he had a bullet in 
his shoulder that made his arm ache in dull weather. 
Both the suffering shoulder and the crippled hand were 
the result of a Fourth of July celebration. His finger 
was shot off with a toy cannon ; but he got patched up 
and in an hour or so joined his comrades; "and I was 
soon monkeying around wid de boys," said he, "same 
as befo'. One of 'em had a little popgun. It wa'n't 
loaded, and we was havin' a jolly time pointing it 
at each other when all of a sudden it went off and 
hit me in de shoulder. I couldn't use my arm for 
a month; and yit de gals treated me so well all dat 



152 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

month my arm was in a sling I had de best time of my 
life. 

"Later I went on to a United States training-ship at 
New Orleans; but dey abuse me on dat ship and I 
runned away. I was green enough to keep my uni- 
form on and wear all my pistols and knives. So dey 
got a hold er me in Memphis an' took me back ; but I 
run away again, an' dey'll never ketch me now." 

Between Cairo and the Mississippi is a half mile of 
lowland overgrown with willows and cottonwoods. 
The water was up and this low ground was flooded, 
yet not so deep but that one could see the tops of the 
withered last year's grasses and tall weeds. On these 
bottoms bordering the Ohio lived several amphibious 
families, evidently prepared for all emergencies. Ordi- 
narily they were land dwellers ; but the foundation on 
which they erected their tents and shanties was a raft 
or scow; and though this rested on the ground most of 
the year, it was set afloat when the water encroached. 
One man, however, had sought a diff^erent means of 
escaping the flood. He had perched his hut well up 
among the branches of two great cottonwoods. It was 
safely above the reach of the freshets, and a dog was 
on the porch standing guard in his master's absence. 
Near by were the rest of the home belongings heaped on 
rafts and platforms. The largest raft served also as a 
refuge for the hens, which were picking about or roost- 
ing apparently quite content. "They better be careful 



At the Meeting of the Waters i ^2 

and not tumble in," said my oarsman. "If a chicken's 
feathers git wet he's gone. He cain't set up on de water 
hke a goose." 

Not far away was a neighbor's raft on which was a 
home and two cows and a calf. The creatures had little 
room to move about, yet there they would stay till the 
water receded. 

As we rowed leisurely along several steamers went 
down or up the river, most of them railroad ferry-boats 
loaded with freight cars going to or coming from a 
station on the west bank of the Mississippi. In their 
wake the great waves rolled away and set our little 
craft to pitching and rocking in a manner that was very 
exhilarating. 

Presently we came to "the coal fleet," and had to 
make quite a detour to get around it. This fleet was 
an immense mass of loaded coal barges moored close 
together and attached to trees on the shore by great 
ropes. The coal was destined for towns up the Missis- 
sippi ; but the steamers which towed the boats down 
the Ohio from the mining regions were unable to strug- 
gle up-stream with all they brought down, and a part of 
the tow had to be left here to be sent on later. 

While we were passing the coal fleet my companion 
let our boat drift, and he watched attentively the black- 
birds fluttering about the floodtrash that had lodged 
against the barges. "They are pickin' up worms, 
toad frogs, and one thing another," he said. He 



154 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

wished he had brought his rifle; for he was confident 
he could easily have shot enough for "a pot pie." 

We went on until we were at the meeting of the 
rivers and saw the waters leaping and eddying in rough 
contention. Each river was distinct from the other in 
color as far as the eye could see down the broad channel. 
The Ohio was a light yellow and the Missouri a dark 
coffee color. Both were laden with sediment, but the 
latter carried by far the most. 

On our way back we were overtaken by a shower. 
The sun glimmered through it, and my rower remarked, 
"Shine and rain together — the devil's beatin' his wife." 

"Why is he beating her.^" I asked. 

"Because she done burnt de biscuits las' Sunday," 
was the reply. 

I wanted to see some of the farming country in the 
vicinity, and one day I made a trip across the Mississippi. 
The region on the west shore had all been under water, 
even the land behind the levee. The roads were not 
passable to a person on foot, and I kept to the embank- 
ment and followed its curves and angles for four or five 
miles. Sometimes I had the river in sight, but usually 
the levee was well back inland, with half-flooded corn- 
fields and heavy growths of cottonwood between it and 
the stream. Occasionally I would see the tips of tall 
steamer smokestacks with their black smoke plumes 
moving along beyond the trees and never get the least 
glimpse of the vessel itself. The flood had receded 



At the Meeting of the Waters 1 5 5 

somewhat, and where the current had flowed strongest 
across the fields, the land was much furrowed and was 
scattered with drift rubbish. This rubbish varied from 
cornstalks to vast tree trunks with roots and broken 
branches attached. 

The levee and the rough, half-wooded land along the 
river serve the local cattle for pasturage, or "range," as 
the people themselves say. The water had been so 
high and the season so backward that the creatures had 
be^'en having hard fare, and they were as thin and gaunt 
as scarecrows, and their hair was tangled full of cockle 
burs. They licked up the grass and weeds on the levee 
and wandered over such of the last year's cornfields as 
were not flooded. When there was bare ground beyond 
the backwater the cattle were sure to seek it out. They 
would go in slow, steady, single file, wading up and 
down over the submerged ridges, and now and then dis- 
appearing all but their heads. The calves followed the 
rest, even though they had to swim half the distance. 
Once out of the water the creatures would begin to crop 
the tufts of grass that had succeeded in thrusting 
through the mud, and sometimes would nibble the 
leaves from the trees. 

The levee on which I was walking was quite impres- 
sive, it was so immense, so regular, so unending. Ap- 
proached sidewise it made a considerable hill to climb 
over, while the top was a much-used highway deeply 
marked by cattle and pedestrians and occasional horse- 



156 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

back riders with a broad hard-trodden footpath. On 
the landward side the fields were large and smooth, and 
looked fertile and well-tilled. Here and there were 
pleasant homes, none of the dwellings fine, but as a 
rule cosey and clean, with vines and shrubbery and 
shade trees growing about them. 

Of course there were the ruder and less orderly 
homes, too; and in particular I noted a negro cabin 
on the edge of the levee that was a real marvel in its 
way. One end had settled down off its blocking and 
had slewed the whole structure out of shape, opening 
cracks, twisting floor boards, and tilting the porch roof 
the wrong way. I tried to find out what had happened 
to the house, but could only learn that it had been just 
like that a long time, and that the owner was intending 
to tear it down, so there was no use attempting to 
better it. 

Not far away, on the other side of the levee, I stopped 
at a farmhouse to talk with a sunbonneted white woman 
who was making soft soap in the yard. She had a fire 
with a great black kettle over it and said she was "bilin' 
the lye. It has to bile slow all the morning," she con- 
tinued, "till it's very strong. Then I put in the fat I've 
saved — trimmin's of meat sich as we don't eat, pork 
rinds, and the cracklin's that we have left when we are 
trying out lard. After the fat is in I have to stir it every 
little while v^ith a paddle and be careful not to have too 
big a fire, or it will bile over. So it simmers along till 




PlH 



At the Meeting of the Waters 157 

four or five o'clock and is done; and when it's stood to 
cool over night I dip it out into a flour barrel. If the 
soap is all right it's thick like jelly, and I'd much rather 
have it than the soap you buy. What I make in this 
kittle v^ill run me a year." 

I could see that the recent flood had been up in the 
yard; but it had not reached the house. "The floods 
are the worst thing there is about this country," the 
woman declared. "Now this year the big slues in the 
fields won't dry out all summer we've had sich an over- 
flow, and we couldn't git our garden broke up till two 
days ago. I think potatoes had ought to be planted in 
the dark o' the moon to do real well, and a heap o' 
people talk thataway; but with the water comin' up 
hyar like it does you have to plant when you can. I 
was raised in Kentucky, and it always seems to me we 
got kind of a queer climate hyar. Sometimes it turns 
in pretty dry, and then ag'in thar's too much rain. 
I never beared vv^hat 'twas like till I come hyar, and I 
allow I'd 'a' stayed in Kentucky if I'd knowed." 

When I returned to Cairo it was evening, and the 
flooded bottoms were vocal with strange pipings, gut- 
turals, croakings, and mutterings. All the swamp crea- 
tures were rejoicing in the abounding water and were 
singing their weird songs of contentment and love. 

Note. — Cairo can hardly be called an ideal town for tourists, and yet 
a day or two can be spent there with profit and pleasure. One should 
see for oneself the meeting of the two giant rivers, and should get 



158 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

acquainted with the loiterers and workers of the waterside, and with 
the houseboat folk, and should go for a ramble on the levees. 

The town did not especially interest me aside from the features I 
describe ; yet I do not claim to have done the place full justice, for 
I dwell only on certain picturesque characteristics that impressed me in 
my casual wanderings. When this chapter appeared as one of a series 
of articles pubUshed in the Outing Magazine, the Cairo Bulletin com- 
mented on it in a long editorial headed " Cairo Maligned Again." The 
Bu/ktin says that Charles Dickens, in his famous travels in America, 
-influenced by a severe attack of the influenza, proceeded to void his 
wrath" on Cairo, and it has ever since "been fashionable by a certam 
nondescript class of writers ' ' to copy his thoughts if not his words. " Young 
authors whose works do not command attention without the thin 
yellow line of sensationalism, and who fail to realize that the immortal 
novelist succeeded, not because of his abuse of this city, but in spite of 
it, are disposed to fall into the same error which caused Charles Dickens 
such keen regret during the late years of his life." 

The Bu/ktin thinks I ought to have devoted more time *' to an ex- 
amination of the religious, social, and commercial life of the city." It 
adds that if the author "had embraced the opportunity to attend divine 
services in the city at any one of the dozens of churches, he might have 
felt in a much less libelous frame of mind. If Mr. Clifton Johnson will 
take the trouble to repeat his visit to this city, giving due notice of his 
expected advent, he will have quite as much reason as he did upon the 
occasion of his first introduction to the community for reporting that 
♦the place is probably not charming at any season.' " 

After all, doesn't the editor's closing hint of tar and feathers, or 
whatever the forms of personal violence may be that he had in mind, 
savor more of the dominance of saloon influence in his city than of the 
many churches he mentions? Cairo undoubtedly has a better side than 
that I particularly describe, but it has also a worse side if this bigoted 
editorial is a fair sample of the tenor of its citizens' minds. 

The pith of Charles Dickens's reference to Cairo is as follows : "At 




/ 



/ . 



bl>F 1 -hUAl' 



At the Meeting of the Waters 159 

the junction of the two rivers, on ground so low and marshy that at 
certain seasons of the year it is inundated to the housetops, lies a breed- 
ing-place of fever, ague, and death. A dismal swamp on which the 
half-built houses rot away ; cleared here and there for the space of a few 
yards, and teeming then with rank, unwholesome vegetation; a place 
without one single quality in earth or air or water to commend it — such 
is Cairo." 



IX 

MARK TWAIN's COUNTRY 

MARK TWAIN has been a good deal of a wan- 
derer, but the region that is peculiarly his own 
and that his memory lingers over most fondly 
is the land of his boyhood. Again and again he recurs to 
it in his books, and portrays with rare vividness the old 
life he then knew. His home was at Hannibal, Missouri, 
a loafing, out-at-the-elbows, slave-holding river town. 
As matters were then, the Mississippi was far more 
interesting than anything else to the inhabitants, and 
the big steamboats arriving daily out of the mysterious 
unknown of the North and South never failed at their 
approach to rouse the town from its usual torpor into 
alert activity. The world lay whence they came and 
whither they went; but now they are infrequent, and 
their work is done by the prosaic railroads. 

Hannibal has grown a good deal in the last fifty years, 
but here and there the old lingers amidst the new, and 
surrounding nature in its wild hills and glens is essen- 
tially unchanged. Great ragged bluffs rise successively 
along the river front, and the loftiest height of all, with 
an altitude of three hundred feet, almost overhangs the 

1 60 



Mark Twain's Country i6i 

heart of the town. This is one of the "Lover's Leaps" 
you find all along the river; for wherever a particularly 
bold cliff rises above the stream it has been given the 
title mentioned and a vague legend has grown that long 
ago some lovesick Indian jumped off the height to his 
death. At any rate these bluffs are quite appropriate 
for such a performance. About Hannibal they slope 
away from the stream in green, tree-dotted pastures, 
for the most part. On the hills inland are scattered 
farmhouses and many orchards, patches of forest, 
fields of grass, corn, and small fruits. There are clear 
streams in all the hollows, and so much variety every- 
where in the landscape that the region seems a boyhood 
paradise, unfailingly stimulating to the youthful imagi- 
nation and full of possibilities. 

The house the humorist lived in still stands and is 
much the same as it always was — a stumpy, two- 
story, clapboarded dwelling close to the sidewalk. It 
is just off" the main street snugged in among other 
similar buildings. The senior Clemens had a printing 
shop upstairs in the L of the house, and as there were 
several children the living rooms must have been pretty 
well crowded. 

"All the family w^as the nicest people you ever saw^," 
I was told; "but they were very poor and the father 
died bankrupt when Mark was twelve years old." 

On the next street lived "Huckleberry Finn," whose 
real name was Tom Blankenshipp. In the books this 



i62 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

lad turns out to be quite an admirable character, but 
in actual life he and all his relatives w^ere a very rough 
lot, and when he left town it was to go to the peni- 
tentiary. The author's descriptions of Huckleberry's 
father lit the person who was "the town drunkard — old 
man Finn." His end could hardly have been more 
tragic even in fiction. He was locked up one night in 
the calaboose, and in lighting a match to have a smoke 
set fire to the building and was burned to death. 

The Huckleberry Finn house was always rude, but 
it has not yet succumbed to either age or chance, and 
its ruinous, unkempt antiquity is quite worthy of its 
associations. Two or three negro families now live in 
it, and I made the acquaintance of one of the women 
inmates who was sitting out in front lunching on bread 
and a dish of greens. Once in a while she gave a bit 
of the bread to her little dog that hovered about ex- 
pectantly. "I'd be eatin' indoors," she remarked to 
me, "but it kind er wet in dar sence dis yere big rain 
yisterday." 

There were holes in the roof, and I asked if the water 
came down through from the upper story. 

"Oh, no, honey," she responded. "It flowed right 
in de door. I live at de bottom er de house three steps 
lower dan de sidewalk, an' de water have an easy chance 
to git in ; but it mos' dried away now." 

"This is the Huckleberry Finn house, isn't it.'"' I 
inquired. 




The Stepimng-stones at the Ford 



Mark Twain's Country 163 

"It sholy is," was the reply, "an' las' year Huckle- 
berry Finn and Mark Twain both was hyar to see it. 
Dey come togedder in a two-horse coach, an' dey each 
one give me a quarter." 

"Yo' doan' know nothin' what yo' talkin' about," 
said an irritated male voice from inside the lower room. 
"Huckleberry Finn is daid long ago." 

"No, he ain't," was the woman's reply. " He was hyar 
las' year an' give me a quarter. He was a little dried 
up ole man and he had whiskers an' look some like 
Santa Claus. You seen Santa Claus picture, ain't you, 
mister ^ Mark Twain is a heap bigger'n Huckleberry 
Finn." 

"He's daid, I tell yo'!" said the voice indoors in 
gruff anger. 

From a window upstairs a dishevelled young colored 
woman was looking down. The window-glass was 
mostly gone, and she had her head thrust through a 
hole left by a missing pane and one arm through a 
similar opening just below, so that she could rest her 
chin on her hand; and she made a very grotesque sort 
of a tableau. The woman below referred the matter in 
dispute to this looker-on, who said it was Huckleberry 
Finn that called with Mark Twain, and no mistake. 
Her response maddened the man inside past endurance, 
and he began swearing and stamping about and finally 
slammed the door. 

The woman with the lunch rolled up her eyes depre- 



164 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

catingly. " My man git plumb crazy over his own mis- 
takes," she declared. "He doan' know he wrong when 
I tell him so, an' when all de neighbors tell him so, too. 
God has sent a judgment on me for marryin' dat man. 
I gwine go away to St. Louis an' jine a show if it ain't 
nothin' but de hoochy-koochy ! " 

The part of the town I was in lay at the foot of a 
steep and lofty hill with little homes clinging to it, and 
here and there stairways and zigzag paths. Farther 
north were other hills and among these the boys used 
sometimes to dig for treasure, and here, according to 
the Tom Sawyer book, was a haunted house. Even 
now there is a "Ghost Holler." I was told about it by 
a woman who lived near by. " It's a very lonely place,'* 
said she. "It's shady and awful deep, with high rocks 
on both sides, and it's always damp, and the ferns grow 
there. It looks ghostly — it really does ; and some 
people say they see things. I know the children have 
been in there and heard strange sounds and come run- 
ning home they were so afraid. Folks claim some one 
was murdered in that holler a long time ago." 

The woman was standing at her garden gate, and I 
had interrupted her in the midst of a chat with another 
woman, her nearest neighbor. "Speakin' of Ghost 
Holler," said the latter, "reminds me of when Will and 
I was first married. Don't you remember, Mame, the 
old house in the west part of the town we moved into ? 
People told that the house was haunted by a woman 



Mark Twain's Country 165 

who had died there, and my Aunt Isabel, when she 
found I was goin' to Hve in the house, she give me a 
talkin' to. She said, 'Don't you do it. You'll never 
have no peace. That woman comes back nights and 
she takes the tin pans and the dishes and makes such 
a rattlin' no one can't sleep.' 

"I got so nervous over what she said I told Will I 
wouldn't go there. But he laughed at me, and he said 
Aunt Isabel was superstitious or she wouldn't 'a' re- 
peated such nonsense; and he said once when he was 
a boy and was out in the dark he see a big black thing 
in the woods that seemed like some terrible monster, 
and he thought to himself, 'Maybe it is, and maybe 
it ain't. If it is, I'm a goner anyhow whether I run 
or not, and so I'll just find out.' Then he went right 
to it, and it was nothin' but a half-burnt stump. Ever 
since that time, when he sees anything strange in the 
dark he jus' goes straight to it, and he says he wants 
his children to do the same. He does hate raisin' 
children up cowards. Well, we went to the house he'd 
rented, and my pans and things stayed quiet on the 
shelves same as they would in any house." 

The hill where the boys used to dig for treasure with 
most enthusiasm, expecting to find " a brass pot with 
a hundred dollars in it, or a rotten chest full of dia- 
monds," was two miles north of the town up the "river 
road" that creeps along the verge of the stream. Ac- 
cording to tradition, the old Spanish explorers buried 



1 66 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

vast riches there. Adults as well as youngsters have 
delved after the fabled treasure, and the search has not 
even yet been abandoned; but if the scrubby pasture 
height holds any golden hoard in its stony soil it has 
thus far kept the secret well. Another attraction that 
the hill has is an Indian mound. This is on the loftiest 
crest of the bluff, an impressive spot commanding an 
immense sweep of river and valley. The mound is 
eight or ten feet high and has a base .some twenty feet 
across. These mounds are common on the uplands, 
but they have all been dug into and pillaged by the 
whites. 

The most notable of the Tom Sawyer adventures 
occurred in a cave three miles beyond the town in the 
other direction. The cave entrance is in a low valley 
to which a long v^inding road descends from the main 
highway on the hills. This road has been abandoned, 
and I found it gullied by rains and growing up to bushes, 
and the bridges across the brooks had rotted out and 
fallen in. But I contrived to get along until a big 
black storm came swooping across the sky. Luckily I 
was now near the bottom of the valley, and I soon came 
out of the woods into a clearing and saw a house not 
far away. Great drops of rain were beginning to pelt 
down out of the gloomy sky, and I ran. I did not 
escape altogether; but the worst of the storm came 
afterward and was mingled with a dash of hail. 

The house was empty when I entered it. However, 





Mark Twain's Boyhood Home 



Mark Twain's Country 167 

a few moments later a woman hurried in with five 
children. She said: "They been playing down to the 
creek. I can't keep 'em away from there, talk all I 
will. Do you see that there blanket out on the line ^ 
I've washed it three times to-day, and every time the 
line has broken and let the blanket down in the 
dirt. Now, it was jis' gettin' tolerable dry, and see 
how the rain is soakin' it. I never was so discouraged 
in my life. We moved here a month ago, and we ain't 
had nothin' but rain since. We've put in our garden, 
but seems like the seeds was all goin' to rot on us 
before they can come up. I don't know what's got 
into our climate, it's so different from what it was when 
I was a girl." 

The children for a time looked at me while their 
mother talked, and then glanced around to find other 
amusement. Presently the mother exclaimed sharply, 
" Come away from that cat, Harry !" and turning again 
to me remarked, "I ain't much stuck on livin' in the 
country." 

The boy had not been quelled, and the cat was 
making audible protests at his treatment. "Harry," said 
his mother with more energy than before, "leave that 
cat alone"; and she continued half to herself and half 
to me, "What does make a youngone keep on a-doin' 
a thing thataway after you've tol' him to quit?" 

Two of the children stepped to the door and held 
their hands out to the rain. The mother called them 



i68 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

back and then observed: "I don't want 'em wet 
because they got the whoopin'-cough and might be 
made sick. They ain't havin' it powerful bad though. 
They don't whoop. They jis' cough hard an' gag an' 
throw up; but throwin' up is a good sign, you know." 

She gazed out of the window. "There's too many 
hills here," said she. "It's all so up and down that 
it's discouragin' to look at it. I don't see why any 
one should want to live in Missouri. . I reckon Illinois 
is better; but law ! I might not think so if I was there. 

"Until late years my husband always lived in the 
town. Me 'n' him was raised on the same street; and 
when I was young folks I used to say I wouldn't marry 
a countryman, no matter how rich he was. One of our 
best friends is a man that is a farmer and always has 
been. We was still livin' in town when we got ac- 
quainted with him, which was jis' after we was married; 
and he said if he'd seen me sooner he'd 'a' married me 
instead of his own wife. I turned up my nose at that 
because I wouldn't have looked at any one but a city 
man for a husband then; and yet I might as well have 
taken a countryman that knowed something as a city 
man that didn't know anything. A countryman un- 
derstands how to do everything about crops and build- 
ings and tools; but a city man when he's put out on a 
farm is mighty unhandy. Oh, it's so dead here from 
what I'm used to !" 

Now the storm was past and the sun was shining forth 



Mark Twain's Country 169 

on the wet earth and the dripping trees, and I resumed 
my walk. The woman told me the cave was "sort o' 
on the bum," and I found the evidences of its being 
a run-down pleasure resort quite apparent. Near 
the entrance were a few shabby buildings including a 
pavilion. The passage into the earth had been roughly 
enlarged, and a slatted door, whacked together by some 
tinkerer, had been put up. I joined a party that was 
just going in with a guide who distributed candles and 
then led the way. The cavern honeycombs the earth 
with several miles of devious and tangled passages, and 
it was among these passages that Tom Sawyer and 
Becky Thatcher were lost on that Saturday of the picnic, 
and they did not get out until Tuesday afternoon. The 
walls of the cave are a monotonous gray, and the chan- 
nels never have width or height enough to be impressive; 
but the age of it all, the silence and the gloom, are not 
easily forgotten. Mostly, the interior is quite dry, but 
in certain spots the water drips through, and in one of 
the little side channels is a crystal-clear pool at which 
every visitor stops for a drink. Except for the smudgy 
and odorous candles the air is perfectly pure. There 
are other caves in the hills, and a resident of the vicinity 
mentioned to me that, "Some of 'em have got satelites 
in 'em"; but only the Mark Twain cave has been 
made accessible to the public. 

Our guide had read Mark Twain's works and was 
quite capable of discussing them. "They're entertain- 



i~o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

ing," he said; '"but thev're mostly fictition. Mark 
was here last year. I was expecting to see a great tall 
man, and vet he's no larger'n vou or me, and iust an 
ordinan* man to look at. He's got a big reputation, 
though — probably because he's kind of an oddirv — 
something on the ancient order I might sav. He has 
a rambling disposition, and I expect it's his nature to 
be uneasy and to think some other place would suit him 
better'n the one he's in — same like a tramp. He's 
livin' in Italy just at present and writin' the historv of 
the world so far as he knows it." 

The authors birthplace was Florida, a httle town 
up Salt River, twentv or thirtv miles awav. I decided 
to see it, but the railroad does not go nearer than a half- 
dozen miles and I walked the rest of the distance. It 
was a prett}- savage sort of a highwav that I travelled — 
a chaos of ruts and ridges, mud and pools. It looked 
as if it had been ploughed bv Satan and his imps to 
plague mankind. The low spots were a wild mixture 
of sticks and stones and liquid clav, and how a team 
could get along and keep nVht-side up was a mvsterv. 
In places I was puzzled what to do mvself. and once or 
twice I climbed along on the fence. I grew tired of 
the monotony of the rolling landscape. There was a 
constant succession of houses and fenced fields and 
grazing herds : hut the houses were far apart, and the 
fields ven' large, and the roads distressingly straight. 
I strut:^crled on until I came to Salt River, and there 



Mark Twain's Country lyi 

beside the swift, muddy current I made the acquaintance 
of two old ladies sitting on a log fishing in great quiet 
and contentment. They had thus far caught only one 
fish; but they had the enticement of hope to cheer 
them; and apparently the companionship of each other 
and the stream and the fresh leafage of spring putting 
forth on the banks and the songs of the birds were 
happiness enough, fish or no fish. 

On the crest of the hill beyond was the village, a 
primitive hamlet well away from the busy world, and 
seldom stirred from its placidity. Its visible life, as 
I saw it, consisted largely of loiterers around the store 
porches and numerous wandering pigs on the streets. 
These pigs had no qualms about lying down to sleep in 
the middle of the highways, and their miry rooting- 
places were everywhere. The majority of them be- 
longed to the proprietor of the village drugstore, and it 
was his habit to feed them directly in front of his place 
of business. 

I found lodging at an old-fashioned farmhouse. The 
floors were covered with rag carpets, some of which were 
quite new and calculated to put a rainbow to shame 
with the variegated brightness of their stripes. Rag 
carpets are the standard kind throughout the Missouri 
country among sensible people of moderate means. In 
a back shed of one of the Florida dwellings was a car- 
pet in process of weaving, and before I left town I went 
in and watched the work. The woman weaver said 



172 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

she earned twelve or fifteen dollars each spring and fall. 
She charged ten cents a yard and had to work very 
persistently to do five yards in a day. "It's hard on 
your clothes doing this weaving," she added, "and I 
wear out enough in a season to make a rag carpet for 
myself out of 'em." 

It was very pleasant that first evening at the old farm- 
house after the day's tramping to sit on the back porch 
and rest. The robins carolled in the trees, the swallows 
soared and twittered, the Bob Whites called in the dis- 
tant fields, and the odor of apple blossoms filled the 
air with gentle perfume. 

My landlord and his wife were old like the house they 
lived in, and their recollections went back to pioneer 
times. After supper I had their company on the porch, 
and also that of a few mosquitoes. "We don't have the 
mosquitoes the way we used to have 'em when this 
country was first settled," my landlord remarked; 
"but you'd find plenty yet down in the bottom lands. 
There ain't much water up hyar on the hill for 'em to 
hatch in." 

"No," said his wife, "though there's a right 
smart of 'em come from our water barrels, and I've 
always heard they're a heap mo' friendly raised 
thataway. 

"When I was a little girl," she continued, "hit was 
all woods around hyar for four or five miles north and 
south of the river — ■ oak and wa'nut, cottonwood. 



Mark Twain's Country 173 

ellum — everything. We didn't have any wire fences 
then. They was all of split rails. Our first-class tim- 
ber is pretty much gone now. We got plenty of wood 
to keep our houses warm, but we don't cut down any 
good trees and burn 'em on the ground to get 'em out 
of the way, as we did once. Wood's worth something. 
Why, we took up a rail fence last winter was a year ago, 
and sold hit for firewood and got enough to buy a wire 
fence to take hits place." 

"I've got that fence around my cornland down by 
the river," said the man. "The river put a terrible 
sediment on the bottoms this year — more than I've 
seen in any fresh for a long time, and we'll have a pow- 
erful crop. Most of our land ain't very good until you 
get out on the prairies beyond this strip that used to be 
wooded; but the first settlers didn't take that up 
because hit was all covered with great coarse grass, 
and there was what they called the greenhead fly 
on the prairies that you couldn't get along with 
nohow. Them flies would light on your horses like 
a swarm of bees and bite and suck blood so your 
horses would be unmanageable and you'd have to 
race 'em for timber land along the nearest crick. 
When the settlers began to cultivate the prairie they 
had to plough nights to git shet of them flies. The 
flies was raised in slues and stagnated water, I reckon, 
and after the grass was cut and the land opened up 
to the sun the way hit was when the settlers begun 



174 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

to come pretty thick, the hatching places was dried 
up or was drained away and the flies jis' naturally 
disappeared." 

I mentioned seeing an old ruin of some sort on the 
river bank. "That was a water mill," explained the 
man. " Back in 1840 we had two hyar, and the farmers 
would drive from twenty-five miles around to get their 
grain ground. They'd put on all the wheat they could 
draw with four horses and come twice a year. Often, 
there'd be wagons waiting ahead of 'em and they'd stay 
two or three days befo' hit was their turn. While they 
waited they'd camp out. I've seen 'em camped around 
the mills most as thick as the campers that used to come 
to our picnics." 

"What picnics were those .^" I asked. 

"Until late years we been having a picnic in August 
every year," said my landlady. "All the people in the 
village and round about helped to organize hit, and we'd 
select a place in the bottom by the stream and set up 
some posts eight or ten feet high and put crosspieces on 
the tops and lay on bresh so as to make an arbor about 
fifty feet square. Thousands of people would come, and 
some of 'em would be from forty miles away and would 
start the day before. These distant ones would get 
along that afternoon or evening with their buggies and 
surreys and wagons, and then they'd camp. Every- 
body brought food, and on the picnic day hit was all 
turned over to a man in charge, who'd make one big 




Afternoon Comfort 



Mark Twain's Country 175 

spread of hit and invite the people to come up and help 
themselves." 

"And there was plenty of grub for the whole crowd," 
added the man. "They wouldn't eat nearly all of hit. 
We had speeches and songs, and in the arbor there was 
fiddling and dancing till late in the night. Around the 
sides of the arbor we fixed planks on blocks so the ladies 
could sit down, and if we'd got the arbor high enough so 
the bresh didn't tech a feller's hat we was all right. Ah, 
the picnic was a great thing; but she's run down now.'* 

"This town has changed a good deal since I can 
remember," remarked the woman. 

"Befo' the war," commented the man, "we had 
niggers here as thick as blackbirds ; but now thar are 
mighty few left. We were all Democrats then, and 
if a New England man that was a Republican come 
here and stuck to his principles he might as well 'a' been 
a cat in hell without claws." 

"I shall never forget the war," observed my land- 
lady. "We had quite a little fight right hyar in the 
village. Some Federal soldiers was chased by a party 
of Confederates, and they all come gallopin' into the 
village jis' at daylight, and the Federals got into the 
schoolhouse. The guns begun poppin' and we was all 
scared most to death. I and my folks was in our sum- 
mer kitchen, and my mother tol' me to keep away from 
the window or I'd get shot; but I wanted to see and I 
looked out. Two Confederates was killed and I saw 



176 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

one fall from his horse. The soldiers was always 
raidin' through hyar, one side or the other, and my 
mother she didn't want her silver spoons stolen ; so she 
wrapped 'em up in a towel and dropped 'em into a 
barrel of feathers. But some of the Federals come 
pokin' around one day and they found 'em, and they 
laughed and handed 'em to her and tol' her to keep 'em 
where they belonged." 

"We were all secesh," explained the man, "and 
helped off our bushwhackers as much as we could. 
That made the Federals mad. I know once, when they'd 
been on a chase that didn't succeed, the Federal com- 
mander rode our streets east, west, north, and south, 
and shouted he'd jis' devastate this country for ten 
miles around if we didn't quit givin' the enemy informa- 
tion." 

"One man they wanted to get was ole man Hick- 
man," my landlady continued. "He was a terrible 
Southern man and a spy. The Federals surrounded 
the town once and 'most got him. They come within 
six feet of where he was hiding in a little hollow among 
some bushes." 

"I bet his breath was short then," interrupted my 
landlord. 

"He said he didn't breathe at all," responded the 
woman. " But, come night, he crept away gruntin' to 
imitate a hog so they wouldn't be suspicious if they 
heard him movin'. " 



Mark Twain's Country 177 

"People was mighty mean in time of the war," 
mused the man — "though they're mean enough any 
time, as fur as that is concerned. They thought nothin' 
of droppin' in on you with ten or fifteen horses to feed 
and not payin' a cent; and they was always on the watch 
to find out whether you was helpin' the other side. 
I tell you it made a fellow's eyes bug out to have 
one of their shinin' guns poked in the window at you 
unawares." 

The twilight was deepening into gloom and the air 
was growing chilly. Overhead the swallows were tak- 
ing their last flights. I stepped out into the yard to 
look at them. There they were, hundreds of them, fly- 
ing all in unison in a vast circle with wonderful swift- 
ness. At one point this winged ring was directly above 
the cavernous chimney, which thrust up from the heart 
of the house, and the birds, after making many feints as 
if they would dart into the orifice, at last began in 
earnest to disappear within it, each dropping with such 
suddenness as almost to deceive the eyes. The circling 
continued, but with lessening numbers, till the last 
feathered meteor was gone. The chimney adjoined 
my chamber, and that night, whenever I awoke, 
I heard from inside it a light rumble of wings and 
intermittent twitterino-s. 

Morning came. A brisk breeze blew, and my land- 
lord said, as he sat down to breakfast: "Well, I do 
despise this wind. Hit kind o' makes me uneasy. But 

N 



lyS Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

they say we don't have any such broadcast blowing as 
they do out in Kansas. Two fellers from there was 
hyar one day and the wind was blowing so I couldn't 
hardly keep my hat on my head, and I was speakin' of 
hit, and they said, 'If this don't suit you, don't never 
go west. We'd call this a very ca'm day. Why,' they 
said, 'where we come from, if you put your hat on the 
windward side of the house, the wind will blow so hard 
and steady hit'll stay there all day.' " 

" I can get along with most any wind but a cyclone," 
said his wife; "and I feel thankful we got a cyclone 
cellar handy to the back door. I'm always on the watch 
when we have a day that's extry warm and still." 

*' Hit's a bad sign, such a day, if you see a black cloud 
raisin' in the west," said the man. **Last year a 
cyclone passed within sight of us. We watched hit 
and kept all ready to go into our cellar until hit got too 
far over to do any devilment hyar. Hit was only a 
mild away, and how hit rattled — my, what a fuss 
thar was ! Forty old wagons on a rough road wouldn't 
begin to make as much noise. Thar was a funnel an' 
what seemed to be smoke bilin' up like from a loco- 
motive. My sakes ! I never saw so black a smudge, 
and down low was a queer, yellow glimmer. Hit made 
a track about one hundred yards wide and hit taken 
everything before it. Trees a little decayed hit would 
twist off leavin' only a stump, and trees that was sound 
hit would jerk right up by the roots, no matter how big 




Visiting 



Mark Twain's Country 179 

they was. Hit cleared everything right off down to the 
ground, and I been tol' hit struck some hens and took 
their feathers off jis' as clean as you could 'a' picked 
'em off yourself. I heared tell, too, about a farmer who 
had a lot of corn stored in a bin. At one side of the 
bin was a knot-hole, and the cyclone caught that corn 
and drove the cobs all through the knot-hole. That 
scraped off the kernels and left 'em in a nice heap 
inside the bin. One place thar was a man settin' in 
his house, and the wind tuck that house right up and 
busted it plumb to pieces, but left the floor and the man 
settin' thar in his chair." 

All this was quite interesting ; but what interested 
me most during my stay in Florida was to meet an old 
lady eighty-three years of age, who remembered dis- 
tinctly when the Clemens family were residents of the 
place. The father was for a time a merchant here and 
built a log house to live in. While this log dwelling 
was being erected, the family occupied a little two- 
room frame house, and in the kitchen of that house 
Mark Twain was born, November 30, 1835. The house 
still stands, though now vacant and rather ruinous. 
The family moved to the log dwelling when the baby 
was three orfour weeks old. That survived until recently, 
but during its later years no one lived in it and people 
got in the habit of taking away bits of it as Mark Twain 
relics. "Why, they tore the house pretty near to 
pieces!" said the old lady. "They'd carry off brick- 



i8o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

bats from the chimney and pieces of glass from the 
windows and splinters of wood from the doors and other 
parts, until they'd got about everything but the logs. 

"Mr. Clemens took his family to Hannibal when 
Mark Tw^ain was still a very little boy, and since the 
boy has growed up he ain't been here more'n once or 
twice. He's famous — and yet I couldn't see that he 
was different from most folks, except he had long hair 
and wa'n't very neat. I've read his travels some. 
They're light and trashy; but they're jovial, and I 
suppose that's what people like about 'em." 

When I returned to Hannibal I met other old-time 
acquaintances of the humorist. According to two 
ancients whom I interrupted in an endless series of 
checker games at the back of a store, Mark Twain is 
"the most overrated man in America. There's about 
as much truth in those sayings in his books," I was 
informed, "as there is in a ten-cent novel. His brother 
Orion who was a printer knew more in a minute than 
Sam ever did know; and yet Orion never made no 
reputation. As a boy, Sam was just like other boys, 
except he might have been a little slower. He was con- 
sidered blamed dull, to tell you the truth. It was his 
peculiar drawl and accent that made him famous, I'll 
be dogged if it wa'n't." 

But another man, one of the author's old schoolmates, 
discoursed thus: "He was a mighty still sort of a boy. 
He was distant, and had as a rule rather be by himself 



Mark Twain's Country i8i 

than with the rest of the boys. Most of us used to Hke to 
get in a skift after school and go off fishin'. We'd have our 
poles and boxes o' worms all ready under the school- 
house and we'd grab 'em out soon as school was done 
and go off across the river to the slues and ponds and 
stay till dark drove us home. But I never ricolect of 
Sam a-goin' fishin' with us or a-huntin' with us, though 
he liked to go down to the cave. 

"He was a good talker and had the same slow way 
o' speakin' he's got now. If he was to come along this 
minute and say, 'Charlie, let's me 'n' you go down to 
the cave,' I'd know him just by the tone of his voice. 

"Whatever he told about, he'd, talk so to make sport. 
He'd tell things in a different way from what the rest of 
us could, and it sounded funny. He used to tell us tales 
and we loved to listen at him. His father had a book — 
*The Arabian Nights' — that no one else had in town, 
and Sam would get us boys together of evenings and tell 
us stories from that book, and we was glad to listen 
as long as he'd talk. 

"In the spring of '58 he went on the river to learn 
piloting, because then the steamboats was more in- 
terestin' than anything else, and you found people from 
all parts of the world travellin' on 'em. It ain't that- 
away now. Our river up here is played out." 

The river carried Mark Twain away to new scenes, 
and he has seldom returned; yet the half-rustic life 
of the town of his boyhood, and the rugged hills and 



i82 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

vales around, no doubt contributed much in develop- 
ing and furnishing inspiration for his peculiar genius. 

Note. — Any one who likes Mark Twain's books will find Hannibal 
and the region around keenly interesting. With its varied hills and 
dales, caves and rude cliffs, the district is worth exploring on its own 
account, but when vou have added to that the sentiment imparted by 
the famous books which have made it a background for many of their 
incidents the attraction is superlative. The town of Florida, which I 
also describe, is not verv accessible, and has not even a poor hotel, but 
if you nevertheless make the visit you will carry away many entertaining 
memories. 




The Prophet's Well 



X 

THE PLACE OF A VANISHED CITY 

ABOUT 1823, in western New York, a farm lad, 
Joseph Smith by name, began to see visions. 
He was seventeen years old. For a long time 
he had been reflecting on religion, and he was in the 
habit of withdrawing to secret places and spending 
hours in prayer and meditation. The region was new 
and still half wild ; the facilities for travel and educa- 
tion were few, and the boy knew practically nothing of 
the world, and had received little or no schooling. In 
the visions that came to him in his sleep he saw an 
angel "with a countenance like lightning," and the 
house was filled with "consuming fire." The angel 
told the lad that his prayers were heard and his sins 
forgiven, and declared that the preparatory work for 
the second coming of the Messiah was speedily to com- 
mence, for which work the boy had been chosen by 
God to be an instrument in spreading the gospel in 
its power and fulness to all nations. 

This angel visited the farm boy many times, and 
among other things told him much about the aboriginal 
inhabitants of America, of how they sank from civili- 

183 



184 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

zation to savagery, of their wars and religion and 
prophets. The last of the prophets was one named 
Mormon, who at God's command wrote on thin plates 
of gold what was designed to be a supplement to the 
Hebrew Scriptures. After these revelations were duly 
inscribed, the golden plates were hidden by the prophet 
on the side of a hill near what is now Palmyra, New 
York. 

Directed by the angel, Joseph Smith, the farm lad, 
whose home was in the vicinity of this hill, found the 
plates, and with them a curious instrument which he 
called "urim and thummim," consisting of tw'o trans- 
parent stones set in rims and having some resemblance 
to spectacles. The characters on the golden plates 
were in an unknown language; but by looking through 
urim and thummim. Smith was enabled to understand 
and translate the ancient records into English. 

In 1830 this translation w^as printed as "The Book 
of Mormon," and that same year the " Church of Latter- 
Day Saints" vv^as organized and began to grow. From 
a membership of six it increased in a twelvemonth to 
over one thousand, and during the next three years the 
young prophet ordained hundreds of ministers and sent 
them out in all directions through the country. 

Troublous times followed, and the new sect was 
ridiculed and persecuted, and the believers migrated 
in search of peace from one place to another. At 
length, in 1838, the Mormon saints to the number of 



The Place of a Vanished City 185 

fifteen thousand took refuge in IIHnois, where they ob- 
tained a grant of land on the banks of the Mississippi. 
At the spot chosen was a httle village named Commerce; 
but Smith, in obedience to one of the revelations he was 
continually receiving, changed the name to Nauvoo, 
which means "The City of Beauty." 

Nauvoo was not long in becoming the largest and 
most promising place in the state; and yet less than a 
decade passed before it was well-nigh deserted and 
much of the Mormon property had been confiscated 
and the prophet had been slain. The place has stag- 
nated ever since. In the height of its prosperity and 
power it had nearly thirty thousand inhabitants. Now 
there are twelve hundred. The situation is very at- 
tractive, with the river making a long sweep around 
a peninsula two miles broad. The land is all high enough 
to be beyond the reach of the floods, and recedes from 
the stream in a smooth stretch of meadows and fields 
to where, at the neck of the peninsula, there is a sudden 
rise to a commanding plateau. At the crest of the rise 
stood the great Mormon temple; but the business 
centre was down below on a broad street running across 
the peninsula and ending with the river both north and 
south. This wide avenue is still as it was, and so are 
many of the parallel streets and crossways. You 
can easily trace the orderly plan of the city — the 
skeleton of the vanished metropolis — though the old 
thoroughfares are nearly all grass-grown, and not 



1 86 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

infrequently there is scarcely a sign of travel on 
them. 

Some of the Mormon dwellings were of brick, some 
were frame structures, and many were of logs or of 
wattle daubed with clav. A considerable number of 
the brick and frame buildings have sur\-ived and are 
scattered about the old citv centre and far back into 
the countn*. On the high river bank at the south 
end of Main Street is the home of the prophet Joseph 
Smith — a dapboarded, unpainted farmhouse of mod- 
erate size. It never was ven* substanual, and though 
it is still occupied, the passing vears have lett it badlv 
dilapidated. One of the chambers was pointed out 
to me with the information that the prophet used to 
get his revelations from God "in that there room.*' 

In the vard on the slope that fronts the river lay buried 
the prophet's wife Emma, and roundabout were several 
other graves, some marked bv headstones, but more 
with only a few rocks piled up on them, or roughly 
outlined with a row of bricks. The ground was 
rather dishevelled; for the spot had ser\"ed some pre- 
vious inmates of the house as a rooting-place for their 
hogs. Now it was overgrown with weeds and straggling 
thickets of gooseberr\- and lilac bushes. 

Across the way from the prophet's house is a large 
two-ston* building which he ran as a hotel. In one 
of the upper rooms is a secret closet. It is a closet 
within a closet, and ver\- well concealed. A townsman 




* 



An Old Mormon Doorway 



The Place of a Vanished City 187 

in speaking to me of it said: "No genuine prophet of 
God would have had such a closet. It shows he had a 
guilty conscience." 

Another person told me that Brigham Young was 
killed in the secret closet, and added, "They say spat- 
ters of his blood are to be seen on the wall yet, and 
some people who go in there imagine they see his ghost." 

Every dweller in Nauvoo had something to tell about 
the Mormons — opinions, facts, legends, hearsay. Their 
occupancy of the place and the tragic events connected 
with their leaving overshadow all other happenings be- 
fore or since, and the interest is always kept fresh by 
the questionings of chance sojourners, and by the many 
Mormon pilgrims who come from Utah to visit this 
ancient stronghold of their faith. The old hotel is now 
the abode of a washerwoman, and I found her much 
concerned over some Mormon missionaries who had 
recently preached in the town. "They were full- 
blooded ones," she said — "four long-legged things, 
with coat tails down to their knees, and I didn't like 
the looks of 'em. They preached and sang up here on 
the park, and they boarded with a man who had a 
houseful of daughters. My goodness ! I thought that 
was funny." 

But there were other things she talked about that 
were of more personal importance to her. "A year ago 
I got the malaria from picking strawberries," said she, 
"and it laid me flat on my back. I never got better 



1 88 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

from June to October, and it's only lately I stopped 
havin' stomach chills so't I could work as I used to. I'd 
like to see a man work the way I've worked; but the 
men around here won't take a job unless it jus' suits 
'em. They rather be idle, and they wouldn't lift a 
hand if their wives was to drop dead over the washtub. 
I go at it before six in the morning. When noon comes 
I stop to cook a bite to eat for myself and the chillens ; 
but I'm soon to work again, and many times I've 
washed and ironed and had a dollar earned by three 
o'clock." 

Farther back from the river is the house of Brigham 
Young, a substantial building of brick. This and all 
the other brick structures of the Mormon regime 
never failed to have a touch of quaintness. They 
showed their age, and many had broken windows and 
cracked walls, and a few were deserted and hasten- 
ing to ruin. Some of the old-time brick buildings are 
gone altogether, and the only reminders of them are 
remnants of foundations turned up by the plough and 
hoe in the fields and gardens. The business portion of 
Nauvoo is now on the hill; but except for a little cluster 
of stores the place is a rustic village. Great quantities 
of fruit are raised, especially strawberries and grapes. 
The latter are very largely made into wane, and there 
was always wine on my hotel table. Indeed, the land- 
lord declared it was against the rules of the house for 
any guest to drink water. 



The Place of a Vanished City 189 

The cultivated fields were models of neatness, which 
may be because the owners are mostly Germans. The 
Germans are thrifty and are reputed to have plenty of 
money; but the citizens of a more nervous nationality 
are wont to affirm that they have no enterprise and do 
not care whether the town booms or not. 

Nauvoo is seriously handicapped by the lack of a 
railroad. It is true the railroad is within sight on the 
west bank of the Mississippi, and a steam ferryboat 
plies back and forth across the broad stream, making 
five trips a day; but when the river freezes the only 
substitute is a rowboat shod with runners. This can 
go after a fashion quite independent of what element is 
beneath it. If there are spaces of open water or ice too 
thin to bear the boat's weight, the crew use oars and 
poles; but where the ice is thick they get out and haul 
and push. No matter how bad the conditions, it at 
least contrives to make one trip daily. 

The placidity of the Germans was an irritation to 
some of their more strenuous neighbors; yet it was 
quite delightful in its way. One of them with whom 
I made friends was a fat elderly man whose pudgy 
features and blue eyes were always twinkling with a 
smile. He was a picture of care-free happiness and 
contentment. When I asked him whether he was 
going to get a task he had started done that day, he 
said he did not know. "I works till I am tired and then 
I stops," he explained. 



190 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

He had an osage hedge about his vineyard, and its 
thorny tangle was something of a trouble to trim and 
keep in order. "But dere is a school near," said he, 
"and dot is de best fence dere is for dose poys. Der 
hedge have so many stickers dey think twice before 
dey try to get through dot." 

As to the Mormons he said they used to go out into 
the country around and "steal sheep, pigs, everything; 
and dey had to do dot dere vas so many to feed. Mine 
gracious ! some of dose men had one hundred and 
twenty-five childrens." 

Opinions of the character of the old-time Mormons 
varied. Many wild deeds were done in their day; but 
not all the ill-doing could be justly laid to them. One 
early settler who had the air of wanting to be aggres- 
sively fair to friend or foe said : "I remember when they 
were here very well, and the majority was all right. 
They were industrious and prosperous, and a happier 
people didn't live on top of God's earth. Naturally, 
a new town that had grown in five years from nothing 
to twenty-eight thousand would draw all sorts of folks 
to it, and would be more or less tough. Lots of fellows 
come here busted. They'd got to make a livin' some- 
how, and they banded together and stole instead of 
workin'. If one of 'em got arrested the others would 
swear the son of a gun was somewhere else all the time it 
was claimed he was breakin' the law. So he'd get off. 

"I've heard said that the Mormons would go a few 




A Garden Bonfire 



The Place of a Vanished City 191 

miles out back here in the night and kill a cow in some 
man's pasture and get the carcass in their wagon and 
let the blood drip along, and that then the other cattle 
would foller the trail of blood and the Mormons would 
get the whole herd. I've been told, too, that a great 
many cut-throats and thieves joined the Mormons, and 
that the church kind o' protected 'em when they got 
into trouble. Well, such things are easier charged than 
proved. You see there was a good deal of excitement 
and suspicion about the new religion and the way Joe 
Smith and the rest was carrying on; so pretty much all 
the crimes that was committed and some that wa'n't 
committed at all was laid to the Saints. I wish the 
lyin' hounds who invented those stories could 'a' been 
punished as they deserved. 

"I reckon the farmers would often break the law 
on the Mormons' credit. There were men so anxious 
to get the Mormons into trouble that they would steal 
and hide things on the Mormons' premises and then 
get out a search-warrant to convict 'em of the crime. 
Perhaps all that would have blown over if the Saints 
hadn't got to quarrellin' among themselves about this 
here spiritual wife business. Those who contrived the 
idea claimed it wa'n't polygamy, and that the extra wives 
who was sealed to a man — whatever that meant — 
was to be his, not in this world, but in the next. Pah ! 
That was their way of pulling the wool over people's 
eyes. 



192 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"The kickers started a paper here they called the 
Expositor, and they banded in with all those who 
wa'n't Mormons and wrote like the devil against the 
new religion. 'Drive the Mormons out of the country/ 
was what the Expositor advocated. The Saints got 
mad, and the city council passed an ordinance against 
the apostates' paper, and the city marshal went to the 
office with a blacksmith, who pounded the press to 
pieces, and they threw the whole concern out into 
the street. That was the 7th of June, 1844, and 
twenty days later Joe Smith and his brother Hyrum 
was corpses. We had wild times for a while, and the 
outcome was that the Mormons thought they better 
skip from this region. 

"There was apostates, as I said; but most of the 
Mormons stuck to their religion through all their 
troubles and the discussions. They were just like other 
people — very tenacious of belief. Joe Smith was like 
other people, too. Most men would like to be pope 
if they could, and Joe enjoyed the power his scheme 
brought him. Some think it's strange he could get 
so many to accept his religion; but people can be 
worked up to believe anything. It's easy to pick flaws 
in his theology, and it's easy to pick flaws even in 
Christianity. Now I tell our good Christians they 
ought to make a saint of Judas. If he hadn't brought 
about the death of Christ none of us could be saved, 
could we .^ Ain't that logic .? There's a good many 



The Place of a Vanished City 193 

things in the Bible don't seem quite right to me. For 
instance, I haven't never liked that saying, 'Unto every- 
one that hath shall be given.' If I'd been writing it I'd 
have said, 'Him that hath little, give him a little more. 
Help him along.' But v^hat's the use of talkin' .? 
There's good men in all denominations, and there's 
just as good outside of any denomination." 

The turmoil that brought about the migration of the 
Mormons from Illinois was a curious mixup of perse- 
cution, politics, religion, and warfare. The Mormon 
votes were a valuable asset; for neither of the two lead- 
ing political parties in the state was strongly ascendant, 
and concessions were made to the Saints that could not 
have been obtained otherwise. But at length feeling 
ran so high and the situation became so threatening 
that troops were sent to keep the peace. The Mormons 
had a trained body of militia of their own, known as 
"The Nauvoo Legion," and this prepared for resist- 
ance. Pickets were posted, and when the state troops 
approached there was a real battle on a small scale. 
A man who lived at the time on the town outskirts where 
the sharpest fighting occurred told me something of his 
experiences. 

"The bullets was flying thick," he said, "and my 
father set up a lot of plank along the northeast corner 
of our house to kind o' protect it, and he sent me and 
the rest of the family down cellar. We stayed there three 
or four hours, except that I crept upstairs once in a 



194 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

while to see what was goin' on. Both sides had can- 
non, and when the cannon belonging to the assaulters 
was shot oflP, the Mormons would chase the balls and 
shoot 'em back. Two Mormons w^as killed, and the 
prophet and his brother Hyrum w^as carried off and put 
in the county jail at Carthage. 

"In a few days it was talked around that the governor 
intended to set the prisoners free. But the people had 
got tired of the Mormons' doin's and was bound to break 
'em up. So a band of about two hundred men fixed 
like Indians, with their faces painted red, black, and 
yellow, went to the jail and called Joseph and Hy- 
rum Smith to the window. Soon as the two brothers 
looked out dog-gone if the mob didn't shoot 'em dead, 
and the body of the prophet fell out of the window on to 
the ground. 

" Most of the Mormons moved away in the next few 
months and the last of them skedaddled in 1847. That 
left a big city of buildings and only a handful of people, 
and the Mormons got little or nothing for their property. 
The flat down here w^as all built over, houses behind 
houses about as thick as they could stand. A good 
share of 'em w^as of logs and dry to the core, and when 
a man bought a place down there he'd pick out the best 
house on it to live in and use pretty near all the rest of 
the buildings for firewood. So the city disappeared, 
and it wa'n't long before some man whose wife had been 
coaxed off by the Mormons burned the big temple out 




o 



u 



The Place of a Vanished City 19 5 

of revenge. He never was punished for it, and no one 
knew rightly who done it until he confessed on his 
death-bed." 

Another queer phase of the town's history began, 
soon after the Mormons departed, in the form of an 
attempt to establish a Utopia at Nauvoo. A member 
of this Utopian community told me its history. "We 
called ourselves Icarians," said he, "and the plan was 
to work one for all and all for one. As the words of our 
golden rule put it, 'From each according to his powers; 
to each according to his needs.' It was a beautiful 
idea; but you know the story of Icarus. He made 
himself wings and fastened them on with wax. They 
carried him wherever he wished to go, until one time 
he flew too near the sun and the wax melted. Then 
down he come, and we done the same thing. Our 
leader was Etienne Cabet, a great French lawyer, 
writer, and politician. He was well educated and had 
most rosy prospects ; but he wanted to reform the world 
and he sacrificed everything for that. He begun with 
writing a novel called, 'A Voyage in Icarie,' describing 
an ideal nation. The book was a great success, and the 
people in France were enthusiastic over it— yes, crazy 
over it — and they wanted to see such an attractive 
state of things as was pictured in the novel realized. 

" So Cabet began organizing, and soon no less than 
four hundred thousand persons had signed themselves 
his followers. Then he made the proposal to build up 



196 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

an actual Icaria in America, and the idea swept France 
like wildfire. Shortly, he had secured land in Texas, 
and sixty-nine men of his Paris disciples volunteered to 
go there. They left their families and voyaged to the 
new country. The land Cabet had bought they sup- 
posed was easily accessible; but it proved to be un- 
broken prairie, which they only reached after a terrible 
overland march of two hundred and fifty miles. They 
were loaded down with absurd and useless baggage, 
not one of them could speak English, and they were 
artisans or professional men who knew^ nothing of 
farming and pioneer life. They stayed through the 
summer, but eighteen died of malaria and the rest were 
so disheartened that they started back for France. 

"They got as far as the Red River and there met a 
new lot of recruits, and the whole party went to New 
Orleans and spent the winter. A committee was sent 
up the Mississippi to seek a more favorable locality than 
the one abandoned in Texas. This committee reported 
enthusiastically on Nauvoo, and in March, 1849, Cabet 
himself with three hundred men, women, and children 
came here and established homes. We fixed over old 
buildings and put up new, and we had gardens and 
shops of various kinds, and after a while we built a 
distillery and manufactured whiskey. That was against 
our principles; but we needed the money. Every one 
had something to do, and yet no one was to over-exert 
himself. It was Cabet's idea to make labor pleasant, 




Making a Willow Whistle 



The Place of a Vanished City 197 

and he done it; but he didn't make us prosperous, and 
while a great many joined, a great many left, too. 
The largest number we had in the colony at one time 
was about six hundred. Some of those who joined 
had the sense to get out after being with us only a 
short time, and seeing the scheme was not practical. 
Often a woman would induce her husband to leave 
because we had to be very economical, and she'd been 
used to better things. Then, again, we had everything 
in common, and a man who was pretty smart and knew 
he could make money faster'n most of the others, didn't 
like to be pinned down to an equal share, and so he'd 
cut loose. 

"Cabet thought we should be such a happy family 
and give the world such a beautiful example of working 
for each other that every one would flock to join. But 
he didn't know human nature; and though the new- 
comers brought money, and money was sent us by 
people in France, we was always hard up, and that sort 
of thing didn't attract the public to become Icarians. 
Cabet was a splendid talker, and it was delightful to 
listen to his Sunday lectures. He was admirable in 
many ways ; still, there began to be a lot of disagreeing 
and criticising among his followers. He was a lawyer 
by trade, and he made so many laws an opposition 
sprung up that at last succeeded in outvoting him and 
putting in a new man as president. Then Cabet's 
partisans refused to work, and the new president re- 



198 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

fused to feed them, and the colony broke up in a row. 
That was in 1856. Cabet went down near St. Louis, 
and in December of that year he was found one morn- 
ing frozen in his bed." 

Thus both the Mormon and the Icarian colonies had 
a depressing experience in Nauvoo, and the tragic death 
of their leaders nearly coincided in each instance with 
the end of their followers' occupancy. However, when 
the Mormons abandoned the place their ranks were 
not broken, and they started on a long pilgrimage 
across the wilderness to Utah. 

"Yes," said one of the local dwellers to me, "the 
Mormons was obliged to skin out from here, and if you 
want to know how they went you call on Granny 
Howard. She lives with her son — and he has a loom 
in the house and weaves rag carpets. She's over ninety 
years old; but she does her own work, and in her spare 
time she sets and sews carpet rags, and she don't wear 
any glasses either." 

I found Granny Howard just as described "At the 
time the Mormons left here," said she, "we was livin' in 
lowy on a main road leadin' westward. Some of the 
Mormons' wagons was drawn by mules, some by oxen, 
some by cows, and the poorest people pushed along 
little carts by hand. They went past thataway for weeks 
the whole summer through and into col' weather. 
My heart ached for 'em. But they was a jolly set, I 
tell you. They was jis' as cheery as if nothin' hadn't 



The Place of a Vanished City 199 

happened. I went to one of their Sunday meetings by 
the roadside, and oh, sich pretty singin' I never heard 
in my Hfe ! I remember one ole woman stopped at our 
house an' asked my mother if she wa'n't afraid of 'em. 

"'Bless your ole soul,' my mother says, *I ain't done 
you folks no harm, and I reckon you won't do me any.' 

"'No,' the ole woman says, 'we won't harm a hair of 
your head;' and they didn't. We never lost so much 
as a straw." 

The grayhaired son had stopped the clatter of his 
loom in the next room and now stood in the doorway. 
"I was in the Civil War," said he, "and I've been all 
aroun,' and the Mormons was as nice people as I was 
ever among. That there temple they had here was a 
fine thing, and I believe, by golly, they'll come back to 
Nauvoo some day." 

He, like many others of the citizens, was an admirer 
of the local attractions of the town — its fertile lands 
and its overlook on the long loop of the river; and they 
are all quite certain no spot in the whole valley is so 
beautiful or better suited for the site of a great city. 
They are sorry the Mormons were driven out; for when 
they left, the place was larger than Chicago, and there 
was every prospect of its growing to be one of the 
biggest and most important towns in the nation. 

As to the Mormons, they suffered much, and their 
prophet came to a melancholy end which at the time 
seemed a culminating disaster; and yet his death and 



200 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

the other Mormon fatalities proved to be a fortunate 
thing for the system he founded. The church now had 
its martyrs, and a halo of glory enshrined their memories. 
The methods of their assailants had been unreasonable 
and lawless. Nevertheless, the underlying cause of the 
persecution had a certain justice in it. The Mormon 
population was an unmanageable factor in political 
affairs. The vote was sure to be a unit, and the cen- 
tralized power of the organization' was a dangerous 
element in the state. Seemingly the mob struck at the 
Mormon's liberty of conscience, but really the chief 
thing hated and feared was his lack of liberty of action. 
The effect of the persecution, however, was to make 
the Mormons tenfold more Morman than before. It 
only added to their fanatical enthusiasm. A man will 
think twice about inconveniencing himself for his re- 
ligion, he will hesitate to make himself poor for it; but 
show him that another man stands ready to slay him 
for adhering to it, and he is instantly prepared to do 
battle, not so much for the religion as for his right to 
believe in it if he chooses. 

Note. — Nauvoo has the charm of an historic and exciting past. It 
has a beautiful and impressive situation, much survives to remind one 
of the Mormon days, and few places in America are more moving to 
the imagination. It is a little ofF the beaten path of travel, but that is 
only a matter of being across the river from the railroad, which helps 
to keep it unchanged and preserves the charm. The tourist who fails to 
see it misses much. 



XI 

FARM LIFE IN IOWA 

I SUPPOSE if any state in the Union was to be 
picked out as preeminently a paradise of the 
farmer, that state would be Iowa. Nearly every 
acre of it can be cultivated, and repays generously the 
labor bestowed, the climate is kindly yet bracing, and 
access to markets is phenominally easy. "You can't 
find a place in the state," one man said to me, "that's 
beyond the hearin' of the railroad whistles. All our 
county-seats have at least one railroad runnin' through 
*em, and most of 'em two or three. A man can work 
to advantage in Iowa anywhere. There's no more 
cheap lands to be had, and all the farm country in the 
state could be sold at an average of seventy-five dollars 
an acre." 

My own observations bore out this man's claims. 
One seldom sees land that is rocky and thin-soiled, or 
any boggy hollows but that can be readily reclaimed. 
Nature smiles on the husbandman, and it is a pleasure 
simply to look on the great fields that sweep away in 
gentle undulation to the horizon. There are no abso- 
lute levels, neither are there any abrupt hills; but the 



202 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

landscape rises and falls like the big smooth swells of 
the ocean after a storm. From the top of the swells 
you are especially impressed with the marvellous extent 
of beautiful fertility about you. Even the skies seem 
more vast than you have ever known them in the East- 
Most of the land is cultivated, yet there is much pas- 
turage where numerous cattle, horses, sheep, and hogs 
graze, and there are frequent streaks and patches of 
trees. Sheltered homes are scattered broadcast over 
the face of the earth, and thrift and plenty seem to be 
universal. 

On my first day in Iowa I left the railroad and went 
for a ramble out into the farming country. The 
weather was mild and sunny, and the air so still I could 
hear ail the sounds for miles around — the whinny of 
horses, the barking of dogs, the clear call of the bob- 
whites, and the mellow sighing of the turtle-doves. 
The turf was sprinkled with dandelion gold, and the 
butterflies were flitting about enjoying the heat that 
shimmered over the fields. When I crossed a creek and 
stopped on the bridge to look down into the stream, I 
caught the gleam of silvery scales as the fish gambolled 
in the water; and now and then a fish would come up 
to the surface with a sudden flip that would start a 
circle of ripples. 

Late in the afternoon I called at a farmhouse, and I 
made arrangements to stay as long as I lingered in the 
region. My hosts were Americans of the best type — 



Farm Life in Iowa 203 

intelligent and prosperous, yet living simply and work- 
ing hard. It was a matter of pride to them that they 
owned a piano, for the neighbors had only organs. 

But the thing in the house which gave them the most 
real satisfaction was a telephone. This connected 
them with nearly all the farm dwellers in the region and 
also with the town. The telephone line was a local 
enterprise, and the cost of maintenance was only two 
or three dollars a year. They used it constantly both 
for business and for pleasure. It saved time and 
money and it did away largely with the isolation which 
before had been characteristic of farm life; for homes 
were rarely close enough to each other so that families 
could fraternize freely, even if those who lived next each 
other were particularly friendly. The telephone was 
the more important to my hosts because they were not 
on the main highway, and their road was enlivened by 
few passers. They always looked out when any one 
did go by and made a guess at the person's probable 
business, and if they did not happen to know the person 
would remark, "Well, who in creation is that .f"' 

Besides annihilating distance so that the members of 
each family could visit with whom they pleased, it 
enabled them to listen when others visited. The rules 
did not countenance this, however, as the daughter of 
the house at my lodging-place said, "'Tisn't often any 
one finds fault about your listening, because they do 
it theirselves, too." 



204 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

So if she was not especially busy when the telephone 
bell rang up a neighbor, she took off the receiver and 
held it to her ear a longer or a shorter time, according 
as the conversation proved entertaining or otherwise. 

The surroundings of the house did not show much 
thought for appearances, and the shaggy lawn and few 
shrubs and trees got little care. At the back of the 
house were the barns, corncribs, and other buildings, 
quite a collection in all and scattered over considerable 
ground. Near the barns were a miry hog enclosure, a 
cow yard, and a calf pasture. The cattle were allowed 
to run free the winter through; yet they have a shed 
closed in on the windward side for their protection and 
are fed regularly with hay and with corn on the cob. 
The hay is stacked outdoors, except what is needed for 
the horses; and from the stack a load is taken daily 
in cold weather to a rack in the pasture for the cattle. 
A windmill pump keeps the farmyard supplied with 
water. Every farm has to have its windmill, and you 
see the slender iron frameworks sticking up all over the 
country. 

The farms vary a good deal in size. Some have only 
forty acres, others eighty; but one hundred and sixty 
is the usual size. Many of the farmers have, however, 
added to their original holdings and own three or four 
hundred acres, and there are occasional men whose 
possessions run up above a thousand. In fact, farms are 
fewer than twenty years ago, and you find frequent 




Ditching 



Farm Life in Iowa 



205 



deserted houses. The empty dwellings and outbuild- 
ings are nearly always ruinous. They were probably 
not very substantial in the first place, and lack of care 
and leaky roofs and rough winds soon bring them to 
earth. But the protecting rows of trees that grew near 
may remain long afterward and mark the old home site 
that otherwise has been absorbed into some big pasture 
or cultivated field. 

Quite a percentage of the farms are rented. The 
owners have acquired a competence, and on account of 
age or lack of health have moved to town. They re- 
ceive a rental of from three to five dollars an acre; but 
out of the receipts they pay taxes and also attend to 
repairs on the buildings and fences. The returns are 
therefore not very great on the amount of capital 
the farm represents; but the owners prefer this land 
investment to putting the money into a savings 
bank, because they have greater confidence in its 
safety. 

"Most of the people who have been here any length 
of time own their places," I was told; "but there's a 
few wouldn't be content without a mortgage. A feller 
makin' a fresh start to buy a place has hard pulling. 
It takes a good deal of money for stock and machinery, 
and with land so much higher than it used to be it ain't 
easy payin'. Then, it seem like these here young folks 
now ain't as economical as the people used to be. Soon 
as a young feller gets a little money nowadays he buys 



2o6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

a smart buggy and a horse. He wants to show off and 
so he don't get ahead." 

The farm country is divided with interminable miles of 
wire fencing into lots mostly of forty-acre size. The people 
work the land in fields of that extent as a rule, and each 
field is devoted to one staple. They have no fancy for 
hand labor, use machinery almost exclusively, and skip 
a good deal of detail that we in the older states fancy is 
essential. Thus, in haying, if the grass is thoroughly 
ripe it is mowed in the morning, and in the afternoon 
is raked up and stacked. If green, it is allowed to lie 
until the next day. But in neither case is the grass 
teddered or touched after mowing until it is raked up. 

Very little hoeing is done; but the corn gets con- 
siderable cultivating with a two-horse machine, on which 
a man rides day after day back and forth on the long 
rows. If the hoe is employed at all it is where the wild 
morning glories have grown so thick as to threaten to 
choke the life out of the corn with their entwining 
stems. The morning glories are the worst weed pest 
with which the farmers have to contend. 

A troublesome pest of another sort is the gopher. 
This little rodent is always burrowing in the grass 
fields and making its endless series of dirt heaps. It 
throws up about a peck of pulverized earth in each 
heap from its underground tunnel, but seldom shows 
itself. The roots of the clover and the morning glories 
are its favorite foods. It is also fond of potatoes, and 




Churnmng at i'hk Back Door 



Farm Life in Iowa 207 

when a man makes warfare on it he digs down and 
drops a poisoned potato in the creature's burrows. The 
gopher's mounds are a great nuisance in the grass fields; 
for they clog the mowing-machine knife and often 
bring the machine to a full stop. 

The majority of the farmers own a self-binding har- 
vester, which they use in cutting their oats. Forty acres 
will make about sixty wagon loads or ten stacks. These 
stacks are arranged in two settings, each group of five 
stacks forming a square with one side of it gone so that 
the threshing machine can be placed in the middle. 
Sometime in August or September the threshing ma- 
chine comes with three or four men to attend it and a 
dozen or fifteen of the neighbors to handle the bundles 
of oats, the straw, and the grain. The work is done in 
a day; but it is a day of high pressure. There is 
strenuousness indoors as well as out, for dinner and 
supper have to be provided for all the hungry crowd, 
and the thresher crew has to be kept over night. It is 
the most tumultuous day of the year; but its spice of 
excitement lends it a certain attraction, and the work 
is not nearly so irksome to the men engaged as is the 
more solitary and sober task of corn-husking that comes 
later. 

Most of the corn is husked in the field from the 
standing stalks into wagons, and the labor continues 
in the chilly late autumn, for a month or more. 
Often the last load is not in until about Thanksgiving 



2o8 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

time. The weather and the coarse, sharp-edged husks 
are irritating to the hands, and the workers are usually 
obliged to wear mittens. 

The farm people get up during the busy season at 
about five. The field tasks are done by six o'clock in 
the afternoon, and supper is served ; but afterward there 
are the milking and other odd jobs at the barn and sheds 
which keep the workers engaged until about bedtime. 
In the winter they take life easier, are not up much 
before seven, and indeed only care to be stirring early 
enough to get the children ready to go to school. There 
is wood to cut, oats to haul to market, and the stock to 
care for; but work does not crowd, and some men will 
frequently drive into town with no object whatever, and 
simply "hang around." 

Once in a while a "sale" lends spice to the farm life. 
"The sale may be the result of a man's gettin' in debt 
bad," I was informed, "and he has to auction off his 
belongings pretty close to straighten up; but usually 
it's where some one is moving away, or a family is 
broken up by a death. They have the sales usually 
in winter, because other times of the year lots of us 
would be too busy to go. There's bound to be a crowd 
if the weather is good. The thing is advertised a 
week or two beforehand by posters, and people will 
come to it from a distance of eight or ten miles. 
I've seen more than five hundred men at a single sale. 
It's an all-day affair, and at noon the folks that are 




A Notice on the Schoolhouse Door. 



Farm Life in Iowa 209 

selling out furnish every one with a free lunch of 
bologny, crackers, coffee, and cheese." 

There are seldom any drones in the farm families, 
and I observed that the housewives by no means con- 
fined themselves to indoor duties. One day I stepped 
into a yard where a sunbonneted woman was sitting 
on her back doorstep turning the crank of a barrel 
churn. At my approach operations were brought to 
a stop, and a young woman came to the door, and both 
she and the churner looked at me to see what I had to 
say for myself. I asked about the churn, and the woman 
explained it to me and told what good butter she made, 
and then said with a motion of her thumb toward the 
girl in the doorway, " Her and I do the milking. I don't 
like to eat the butter when the men milk. They have 
enough work without that; and you know they are 
around the horses so much they can't keep very clean, 
and they chew tobacco, and I can't help thinkin' they 
might be spittin' and get their tobacco juice in the 
milk." 

A good many women in the vicinity milked, and they 
very often helped in the fields during the busy days 
of haying and harvest. Woman frequently drive the 
binders, put the oats in shocks, and some of them do 
considerable husking. 

On one of my rambles I stopped at the local school- 
house, a little white building prettily situated on a 
knoll with lofty oak and elm woods close behind it. 



2IO Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

A grassy forest road led away into the grove and fur- 
nished a short cut for the children who lived on the 
other side of the hill. Many initials were carved on 
the casing of the schoolhouse door, and among the rest 
of the decorations were the following lines which some 
one had laboriously written with a pencil : — 

When a tode climes up a tree 
pinch his tail and think of me, 

to which was appended in a different handwriting the 
remark : — 

or some other fool. 

The room inside was rather attractive. It had cur- 
tains at the windows and a variety of pictures pinned 
on the walls. The children were orderly, attentive, and 
bright. As is usual, the teacher was without special 
training and merely a graduate of some village high 
school. Her methods were old-fashioned and the 
pupils recited rather stumblingly and parrot-like; but 
they were getting along fairly well, nevertheless. The 
boys come to school barefoot, and in overalls. That 
was their idea of comfort, and looks didn't count. 
They abandon shoes as early in the spring as they can 
induce their mothers to let them, and the shoes are sel- 
dom on the boys' feet again until the autumn days 
become decidedly frosty. The girls were dressed quite 
spick and span, and judging by their attire you would 
never suspect they came from the same families as the 
boys. 



Farm Life in Iowa 211 

Every winter there was an entertainment at the school- 
house for the benefit of the school Hbrary. This was 
mostly prepared by the teacher and children, and was 
locally the chief social event of the season. But as a 
rule the people when they felt the need of relaxation 
had to resort to the town, where there was a chance to 
attend occasional lectures and concerts and now and 
then a travelling show. 

The town itself was little more than a rustic village. 
I was there over Sunday. An unnatural quiet reigned 
from the earliest dawn, though the roosters crowed 
from coop to coop and the birds sang as usual. But 
by and by a church bell began jangling, and a few teams 
came jogging in from the country and hitched to the 
fence behind the Methodist meeting-house, and strag- 
gling church-goers emerged from the homes and went 
clacking along the board walks. I followed the rest. 
The service was of the usual sort, and I recall nothing 
special in its routine except that the minister had much 
to say of members who were in a "backslidden state'* 
and played cards, danced, and went to the theatre, and 
that he also complained the attendance was not what it 
should be. "You farmers have got good comfortable 
buggies and carriages," he said, "and yet a little shower 
will keep you at home. Years ago when the people had 
nothing to come in but their heavy farm wagons they 
were all here every Sunday." 

The farm folk were much more in evidence about 



212 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

the village on the day following. Their teams were 
coming and going in a desultory way from morn till 
night. Heavy wagons and covered buggies drawn by 
two horses were the rule. No one was in a hurry. The 
men had time to loiter in front of the stores, where they 
found convenient seats amid the displays of farm tools 
and new vehicles resplendent with gaudy paint. The 
women, too, were glad to meet and chat leisurely with 
friends. Often the whole family came to trade — 
father and mother and children of varying ages, from 
the toddler who stepped along with timid caution on 
the unfamiliar board walk, fearful that he might tumble 
off or get caught in the cracks, to the bashful youngsters 
a few years older, timid also from consciousness of being 
in the metropolis, but with eyes wide open to see all its 
wonders. Then there were the boys in their teens — 
raw-looking fellows with misfit clothes and rough hands 
and tanned faces. Last, but not least, there were the 
little girls and the blooming maidens. 

At length Mrs. Farmer finishes her shopping and 
hunts up her man. "I'm ready to go right now," he 
says, and they pack in their purchases under the seats 
and in between and all around until you wonder where 
the members of the family are going to bestow them- 
selves. But they manage to squeeze in somehow, and 
off they go satisfied and happy, with the wagon springs 
sagging to the bumping point. 

That evening an automobile came whizzing into town 




Renewing a Town Walk 



Farm Life in Iowa 213 

and stopped in the village centre. There were three 
young men in it. They stepped into one of the stores, 
and every one on the street gathered around the ma- 
chine, and told each other what they thought about it. 
The three young men presently appeared, lit their 
cigars, turned up their coat collars, and prepared to 
resume their journey; but the machine refused to 
budge. They investigated and tried this method and 
that to coax it into motion; yet there it stuck. The 
crowd grew and was quite fascinated with the per- 
formance. 

*' I ain't never seen this auto out of whack before," 
said a man next to me. 

"Where does it come from ?" I asked. 
"It belongs to two of these fellers," was the reply. 
"They live in the next town north and often pass 
through here; but they usually go just a-bilin' and 
don't stop." 

"They stopped that time they scat Sarah Colton's 
horse," remarked another man who was listening. 

"Why, yes, they did. You see her horse was hitched 
on the street here, and when the auto turned the corner 
the horse seemed to think Satan himself was comin', 
and it broke away and went off with heels a-flyin'. 
These fellers left their machine and give chase. The 
horse was too old to be much of a racer, and some one 
stopped it and the fellers brought it back and had the 
harness patched up, and settled with Sarah for the 



214 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

damages, and went on. Their father used to have a 
clothing store, and he made money. Now they're 
spendin' what the old man saved. They won't get 
no more from him. The old man has made his windup, 
you know. He's under the sod." 

But now the refractory machine had been induced 
to start and went whirling away in a cloud of dust, and 
the village resumed its normal quiet. 

Note. — In Iowa beautiful farming country is almost universal, and 
if you would have a close acquaintance with it, stop oiF the train wher- 
ever you please and set out for a walk or drive. Any fair-sized town 
is very sure to have a good hotel, but accommodations among the farms 
is not always to be found. The better class of families are too pros- 
perous and too busy to care to take in a traveller. So the safe and 
comfortable way is to get lodgings in some town and make short trips 
from there out into the region surrounding. 



XII 

ON THE MINNESOTA PRAIRIES 



I WAS at Dobbsdale, a country village In the 
southern part of the state. It was just after 
breakfast and I had sat down in the office of 
the town's one hotel with the intention of starting out 
for a ramble, presently. The room was rather dubi- 
ously odorous of more or less ancient tobacco fumes; 
but that is to be expected in the average hotel. The 
big stove was flanked on either side by a spittoon box 
-a shallow wooden afFair with the bottom sprmkled 
with dirt, and the dirt sprinkled with burnt matches, 
cigar stubs, old quids, and other filth. The hotel was 
a clumsy two-story wooden building only separated 
from the street by a board walk. Several hitching 
posts bordered the walk and also a stout plank, 
which had been adjusted to serve for a seat when 
weather and inclination favored such use. There 
were board walks all through the village, though 
many pieces were shattered or missing. In the village 
centre was the usual straggling cluster of low stores, 
some of them brick, some wooden; but what was 
especially distinctive about the place was its abundance 



2i6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

of trees. Every street was lined with them, and there 
were many others in yards and along boundaries. 
They were well grown, and made the town a kind of 
human bird's nest, with an aspect charmingly peaceful 
and shadowy. 

The region had been settled within the memory of 
persons still living, and Mr. Dobbs, the ancestor of the 
town, was not only alive, but hale and hearty and good 
for many years yet. He was the town's chief citizen, 
just as he had been from the first. It seemed odd that 
he should have called the place Dobbs's dale; for there 
was no dale, and the country about was almost as level 
as it possibly could be. But I suppose dale appealed 
to his fancy. He evidently had a touch of poetry in his 
nature, as it was due to his hobby that the hamlet was 
so well wooded. He began planting trees when he first 
came, and had never ceased planting them since. 

"The way I happened to settle in this country," said 
he, "ware that my father fit in the War of 1812, and he 
got a warrant from the government for a quarter section 
of land. So my brother and I come here in 1856 and 
brought a sawmill and got out timber and built us a 
house. 

"Game ware very plentiful — thousands of prairie 
chickens and partridges and abundance of mink and 
deer. The streams ware full of pickerel, pike, and bass, 
and at first we just about lived on fish and what we shot. 
There was lots of beaver in the cricks, and the dams 



On the Minnesota Prairies 217 

they made with their mud and moss was wonderful. 
I've seen popple trees a foot through they'd gnawed 
off. The popple ware the tree they seemed to like best; 
but they cut down willow and soft maple some too. 

"There's game around here still; but it's been a 
good many years since I've had a first-class hunt. The 
last ware when a cousin of mine ware visitin' me. 
He 'n' his wife and me 'n' my wife hitched into a double 
express wagon and took our dinners and went after 
prairie chickens. It ware about the first of August. 
The young chickens are two-thirds grown then and 
are as nice eatin' as anythin' you could ask. We went 
out on the prairie, and then my cousin and I took our 
guns and commenced to walk. The ladies drove the 
team and follered us, and they'd keep track of where a 
covey lit. We had some good dogs, and we bagged a 
hundred and twenty chickens that day. 

"When I settled here there was just one man in this 
region, and he had a cabin in the timber by the crick. 
But the emigrants ware arrivin' all the summer, and by 
winter we had a dozen families right around. 

" Every spring and fall the Indians used to come here 
and stay a couple of weeks hunting and fishing. We 
never had no trouble with 'em until 1862. Then they 
made war, and for two hundred miles of the frontier 
they fell on the whites, and in thirty-six hours had 
killed nearly a thousand and took hundreds of prison- 
ers. I don't know how the trouble began. Some say 



21 8 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

a party of Indians got drunk and murdered a man who 
refused to give 'em more whiskey, and that then they 
fled to their encampment, and the rest of the Indians 
decided to protect them. So they all went and started 
a massacree. Others say the Indians didn't get their 
rights from the government and ware neglected and 
ware paid their annuities in greenbacks instead of in 
gold or silver as had been the habit. 

"Anyhow the Indians commenced to burn houses 
and to kill as many whites as they could. The people 
flocked here from a hundred miles back, and when the 
first refugees come I can tell you things did look scarry. 
We got ready every gun and all the ammunition in the 
place, and posted pickets. Some expected the Indians 
ware right behind follerin' of 'em. However, they 
didn't show up that night, and we didn't really know 
what they ware doin' of. So the next day we sent out 
scouts. They found the Indians had gone, and they 
haven't disturbed us in our part of the state since." 

These reminiscences were related to me by Mr. 
Dobbs one afternoon while we sat in the shade of the 
trees on the plank bench in front of the hotel. The sun 
shone clear and hot on the dusty street. Three or four 
teams were hitched to posts and telegraph poles, and 
the horses stood half asleep patiently waiting for their 
masters. On the shadowed side of the street were a 
few men sitting on the stone steps or window ledges 
talking together or reading papers. On the sunny side 



On the Minnesota Prairies 219 

the store curtains were pulled down to shut out the heat 
and glare. Business seemed to have come to a stand- 
still, and in the depths of the leading grocery store I 
could hear the proprietor tooting on a cornet with 
amazing persistency. 

None of the stores had signs, and I was mformed 
that some stores had only been in busmess a few 
months and it was not time to expect them to get up 
signs; while the older ones were well known to every- 
body, and where was the need of their havmg signs ? 

On a corner across the way from the hotel was a one- 
man bank. When the village mail arrived the banker 
locked up while he leisurely visited the post-office. 
Next to the bank was what seemed to be a one-man 
store, and its proprietor, like the banker, went to the 
post-office; but he left his door wide open. He was 
a tall, round-shouldered man, with a leathery face and 
a brush of chin whiskers. His hat was a squatty derby 
of antique style, and his scant-lengthed trousers were 
patched on the seat. He was in his shirt sleeves and had 
his thumbs thrust into the armholes of his vest with an 
air of self-satisfied independence. In his window, amid 
a dubious array of merchandise, was a fly-specked card 
on which was stencilled the words 

GOODS SOLD AT COST 

I made inquiry about this sign and about his business. 
" He's an old-timer," I was told. " He was here before 



220 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

the flood, and he's been sellin' goods 'at cost' and 
makin' money ever since. He does most of his work 
himself, though he has a boy around to help when he 
can find him; but that's not often." 

In the evening things grew busier, and now and then 
a buggy would arrive in a cloud of dust, and the street 
grew quite populous with teams and loitering people. 
Some trading was done, but more visiting. The men 
gathered in groups on the dim-lit walks before the stores 
and swore amiably at each other, as they chatted, by 
the hour together. 

In what I saw of the region on my walks out into the 
surrounding country its aspect varied little. Which- 
ever way I went I found smooth, straight dirt roads, 
and land flowing along endlessly with a hardly per- 
ceptible rise and fall. The staple crops raised in the 
great fields were corn, oats, and barley. Some wheat 
was grown; but the soil did not sustain it as well as 
formerly and it seldom does really well. Flax-growing, 
too, has been gradually abandoned for the same reason. 

The farm dw^ellings were always among trees — 
often in one of the natural oak woods, or on the edge 
of it; but more commonly in the midst of a planted 
square of poplars, willows, and maples that enclosed 
all the buildings and the garden. Every man apparently 
aspired to have a big red barn with a gambrel roof and a 
cupola on top. There were pretty sure to be flowers 
and shrubbery near the house; but in the remoter por- 




The Fascination of the Stream 



On the Minnesota Prairies 221 

tions of the yard was much Htter, including a wood- 
pile, wagons, tools, worn-out machinery, and some 
more or less depleted straw stacks. The dwellings 
as a whole had a pleasing look of prosperity and 
comfort. 

The tillers of the soil are of many nationalities, and 
they show a strong tendency to gather in racial settle- 
ments. Thus, in one vicinity you will find all Ger- 
mans, in another all Norse, and so on. If settlers of 
a particular race are at all numerous in a district they 
have their own church and church school, and in the 
school the text-books are mostly in the native language, 
though enough English is imparted to enable the chil- 
dren to speak and read it intelligently. 

I stopped at a German home one noon for dinner. 
We ate in the hot, smudgy little kitchen close to the 
stove. There were three children in the family, two 
of them boys, and the other a tall attractive girl, who 
waited on the table — probably because there was not 
room for her to sit with the rest. We had fried ham, 
bread and butter, coffee and cake. German was the 
ordinary language of the household, and before we 
began to eat, each of the boys asked a blessing in that 
language. Dinner for the youngsters consisted mostly 
of bread plentifully bespread with molasses. Every 
time a lad finished pouring from the molasses pitcher 
he gave the nose of it a swipe with his tongue to prevent 
its dripping. 



222 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

I asked the man if the Minnesota country suited him 
as well as his native Europe. 

"Gosh, yes!" was the response; "but my woman 
complains about the cold long winter. It's a little 
bit too long. When I come twenty-seven years ago 
the land around here was owned by one man. He'd 
got a whole section, by golly, as a speculation. The 
land he sold me was covered with scrubby bushes 
and was so wet you couldn't walk anywhere with- 
out gettin' your boots or shoes filled with water. 
But cultivation and ditches has dried it off. About 
ten years ago I built this house and a new barn. 
I wa'n't goin' to live in an old shack all my life. I 
had to go in debt some, and that's the case with 
nearly all when they build; but most are gradually 
paym . 

After dinner we sat for a while in the parlor, which 
was impressively neat as the result of a recent house- 
cleaning. The gay rag carpet had just been put back 
on the floor, and there was straw beneath it which made 
it puff up like a cushion; but it would tread down flat 
in time. 

"Do you think the government'll continue this rural 
delivery that they been extendin' everywhere .^" queried 
my host; and he also wanted to know if the cost of the 
service fell on the farmers. "Some people here say it 
ain't a good thing," he continued. "They claim the 
expense is more'n it's worth. I ain't talkin' much 



On the Minnesota Prairies 223 

myself, because my son-in-law runs the mail car, and I 
don't want him to lose his job." 

Views as to the farm prosperity of the region differed 
widely. I had a chat with one man planting corn 
in a wayside field whose comments were decidedly 
pessimistic. "I bought my land in this blamed coun- 
try when land was cheap," he said; "and yet it's been 
mighty hard work to pay for it. I don't know as I 
could have paid if I hadn't had money come to me from 
elsewhere. You see when a feller borrowed fifteen years 
ago he had to pay ten per cent interest. Now you get 
lower interest, but the price of land is up to fifty dollars 
or more an acre. Whoever buys at such a price will 
never pay any of the principal in the world. 

"It's them Germans up north of the town who have 
raised the price of land here. The thing happened this 
way — some German in Wisconsin sold out sixty acres 
he had there for one hundred dollars an acre. That 
made six thousand dollars, and he come here lookin' for 
another farm. Well, he struck a Yankee man up north 
of the town who had one hundred and twenty acres and 
wanted to sell. They got talkin' same as you and me 
are now, and the German offered all his money for that 
farm and got it. After sellin' at a hundred dollars an 
acre, fifty dollars an acre looked cheap, and yet the 
Yankee had offered me the same farm the week before 
for thirty-five hundred dollars. Since that sale no one 
will dispose of any land for less than that Wisconsin 



224 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

feller paid. He made a mistake, but them Germans 
are good thrifty people and get rich if any one can. They 
keep things lookin' nice around the house, too. The 
German women have all got a flower garden, every last 
one of 'em. 

"The Norse are thrifty, too. Yes, they're about 
as careful a lot of citizens as we have; but I don't 
like 'em. They're a high-toned sort of people and 
honest; and yet at the same time they're selfish and 
have kind of a darn mean way. They don't have to 
be here long from Europe before they're a little ashamed 
of being Norse. Soon as they learn to talk English they 
think they're a little better'n you are, and act as if they 
had an idea they knew a blamed sight more than any 
one else. They're great hands to put up big build- 
ings, and once in a while one attempts a little more 
style than he can carry out. 

"That's the trouble with most people here. They 
feel bound to put on style, and so are kept in debt. 
They buy fancy buggies and two-seated covered rigs 
and other things of the sort ; not because they need 
'em, but because some rich men they know have got 
such things. They buy expensive machinery, too; but 
they don't take care of it. A man'll invest sixty or 
seventy dollars in a gang plough; and the first season 
he'll put it in the shed, but the next year he'll leave it 
in the field just where he got through using it. Some 
of the machines they run under a bunch of trees when 




A Pitcher of Milk 



On the Minnesota Prairies 225 

they ain't in use, and there they stay and rot. The 
shade keeps 'em from dryin' after a rain, and they're 
ruined. They'd be better off right out in the sun. 
Worse still, the people keep a miserable lot of stock of all 
kinds — horses, cattle, and everything else; and they 
turn 'em out to pasture in the spring as soon as the 
grass starts, and the cattle keep ahead of the grass the 
season through and ain't never really well fed. The 
buildings, too, are put up just as cheap as possible and 
v^on't last." 

The sky had been growing threatening while we 
talked, and I now thought it best to start for town. On 
the way I encountered a little spatter of rain; but it 
was soon over, the clouds drifted on and streaks of 
sunshine glimmered across the vast landscape. When 
I arrived at the hotel office I found several people there 
driven in by the shower and in no hurry to depart as 
long as the conversation was interesting. One of the 
men was the landlord. He was as much a farmer as 
a hotel-keeper, and he was coatless and had on overalls. 
Another man was a house painter, who was complaining 
because a certain citizen would not give him the job 
of painting his buildings. When he came to a pause I 
spoke of my cornfield acquaintance and repeated some 
of his pessimistic remarks. 

"That's straight," corroborated the painter. "A 
man can come here with six good horses to-day, and 
in a dozen years he won't have enough money to get 

Q 



226 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

out of the country. Suppose he takes land and farms 
it to halves ; at the end of the season, after payin' ex- 
penses, the profits won't buy a bushel of potatoes. 
He'd be ten times better off to go up in the woods or 
on the railroad and work by the day." 

"Now stop right thar!" said the landlord. "I've 
been here four times as long as you have, and I've 
farmed it, too, and I can tell you thar ain't a better 
country lays outdoors than southern Minnesota." 

"That talk'll do for strangers," retorted the painter; 
"but, by gee! it won't do for me. My brother has got a 
quarter section here, and he'd starve to death if I didn't 
help him. Yes, sir, any renter who pays his rent and 
boards his family is doin' a darn big thing; and you 
can stand such a man on his head when he's through 
a season and you can't shake five dollars out of his 
pocket." 

"Look here!" exclaimed the landlord, "the best 
land we got rents for two dollars an acre; and the man 
who can't make money on it ain't no farmer. Whar is 
your brother situated .?" 

"Four miles out on the east road." 

"Oh, well, I ain't surprised now I know whar he is. 
That land is so cold and sour you couldn't raise quack 
grass on it." 

The painter laughed and said: "A feller was tellin* 
me a quack grass story only yesterday. He claimed he 
lost his hat-band one summer day and he picked some 




A Pause in the Day .. .^.»tioK 



On the Minnesota Prairies 227 

quack grass and tied it around his hat. When he 
come in at night his wife took off the quack grass and 
put it in the fire, and not long afterward she emptied 
out the ashes from the stove, and within a few days 
there come up a lot of quack grass where she throwed 
them ashes." 

"You can't kill it," affirmed the landlord, "and its 
sprouts have got such sharp, horny points that they'll 
go right through a potato, or even through a pine board. 
You can pull up a bunch of it and hang it on a fence 
post, and the next year throw it down and it'll grow." 

"You bet your boots it will," said the painter. 

"To show you what sort of a country this is," con- 
tinued the landlord, "I'll tell you what I done last 
year. Thar was a part of my cornfield that I raised 
seventy bushels an acre on." 

"Not much you didn't," disputed the painter. 
"Thirty bushels would be closeter to it." 

"I maysured it," the landlord declared, "and I'll 
leave it to the feller that did the husking. You know 
Jack Searles. He did most the whole job for me at 
three cents and a half a bushel; and he'd do one hun- 
dred and fifty bushels in a day. He did everlastingly 
rip them ears out o' the husks. Why, me 'n' my hired 
man tried racin' with him, and we husked like cusses; 
but he did five bushels while both of us together was 
doin' two." 

"Seventy bushels to an acre!'* scoffed the painter. 



228 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"It can't be done. Must 'a' been something like an 
ear of corn I fixed up to show in a store window. I cut 
off the tip of one ear and the butt of another. The 
places where I cut just matched in size and I stuck a 
stiff piece of wire in the cobs and joined the two ears 
together. It looked like a single ear, and I'll be dog- 
goned if it wa'n't more'n three feet long. Your corn- 
field was down by the creek, wa'n't it?" 

"Yes." 

"I saw it a year ago just after the corn come up, and 
I never see such crooked rows before in my life." 

"My man planted it," explained the landlord, "and 
I was tellin' him we'd have to use the same horse to 
cultivate we did to plant because none o' the others 
could go so crooked." 

"Well," said the painter, "you must 'a' had to blind- 
fold the horse then to get it through some o' the rows." 

"You can joke," remarked the landlord rather 
testily; "but I raised all the corn I said I did on that 
field. I can make money here, and so can others, 
though I will say, vv^ith the land at present prices, a 
man has to scratch and be a good manager to get to 
own it. But thar ain't one man in ten of our farmers in 
debt now, while twenty years ago not more'n one in 
ten was out of debt." 

The discussion was beginning to wax hot again when 
one of the occupants of the room called us all to the 
window. A rusty, gray old man was walking past 



On the Minnesota Prairies 229 

accompanying a pudgy old woman. He was very 
attentive, and there was a touch of gallantry and an 
attempt to make himself agreeable that was not to be 
mistaken. 

"Gee whiz !" exclaimed the painter, "he's a widower 
and she's a widow." 

"Yes," said another, "that's goin' to be a match 
sure ! His son has just married her daughter, and now 
the old folks are goin' to hitch." 

"He was pretty well discouraged after his wife died," 
said the painter. "If he was haulin' a load of straw 
and had a tipover, or if any other little thing didn't 
go right, he was ready to leave this forsaken country. 
But he seems to have chirked up and I s'pose every- 
thing is lovely." 

"If that don't beat the Dutch!" commented the 
landlord. 

The dispute about the prosperity of the region had 
been forgotten; for this glimpse of romance had been 
like oil on troubled waters. 

Note. — Any characteristic portion of our country repays acquaint- 
ance, and the prairie lands of southern Minnesota are no exception. 
They are monotonous, and the tourist may not be tempted to linger 
long, but that should not hinder getting a sample experience. Hotels in 
the smaller places are often rude, but rarely are actually uncomfortable, 
and the food, if not fine, is palatable. The country itself is in some 
of its aspects really beautifiil, the life with its varied mixtures of peoples 
from Europe is interesting, and the impressions you gain have lasting 
value. 



XIII 

NEW TIMES AND OLD IN WISCONSIN 

IN going from Minnesota to Wisconsin I spent 
half a day on the banks of the Mississippi. It was 
an unusually warm morning; but there was a 
breeze to temper the heat, and the views along the stream 
were very beautiful that gentle summery day. The bluffs 
on either side looked like mountain ranges, and their 
sturdy bulwarks fading away delicately blue, north and 
south, until they vanished in the distance, w^ere most 
cheering to the eye after all the interminable flatlands 
which I had been seeing on the prairie country. The 
river itself was a much more lovable stream here than 
on its lower course, where it is broader and muddier 
and so given to tearing the banks and wreaking destruc- 
tion. 

When I continued my journey I went well back from 
the great river up the valley of the Chippewa to a town 
which was a country trading centre of some importance. 
It had a long business street lined with low brick and 
wooden stores, among which saloons were noticeably 
abundant. **Yes," said one man, "we got fourteen 
saloons for our seventeen hundred inhabitants, and 

230 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 231 

they're never locked. There's some laws as to the 
hours they're allowed to be open; but when a man in 
this town starts a saloon he throws the key in the river." 

I arrived in mid-afternoon and the street was full 
of vehicles from the farms. The walks and stores were 
alive with people looking, visiting, and trading. Per- 
haps the place where most congregated was at a store 
in which an auction was being held. When I passed 
it the auctioneer was in a swelter of ardent exertion try- 
ing to get eighty-five cents instead of eighty for a piece 
of dress goods he was waving about with the assertion 
that it was worth two dollars. 

The main street was parallel with the river, and 
the buildings on the west side turned their backs on the 
stream. Their rear foundations were washed by the 
current, and the situation in that direction was quite 
Venetian. The river was very low and everywhere 
streaked with sandbars, and these sandbars were strewn 
with logs. Along the shores were more logs, and there 
were logs lodged against the bridge piers and all other 
chance obstructions — thousands of them. Each Sun- 
day there was a flood. Far up the river was a dam 
where the water was accumulated on purpose to "slush 
out the logs." When the gates are opened the river is 
raised about eighteen inches. Then the logs on the 
sandbars and shores go drifting on, and a multitude of 
others follow from the forests of the upper waters. The 
river is their highway, and they come in unceasing 



232 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

succession for many weeks of the spring and summer. 
Every season in the last forty years the stream has borne 
this same freightage of woodland spoils; but the land 
is now pretty thoroughly denuded, and as one of my 
chance acquaintances said, "This year practically winds 
'em up. When I was a boy the logs floated so thick you 
could walk across the river on 'em steppin' from one to 
another. A few years ago there was lots o' rafts of sawed 
lumber went down — sometimes twenty a day. There'd 
be men on the rafts and every raft would have a tent 
on it for the men to sleep in. They'd tie up nights." 

Now, only logs go down; but they are stopped by a 
boom and rafted when they get to where the Chippewa 
joins the Mississippi, and then are floated or towed 
down the great river to sawmills — even as far south 
as St. Louis. 

The artificial flooding of the Chippewa is not at all 
to the liking of some of the residents on the banks. In 
the first place it made trouble with the Indians. 
"They had big fields of wild rice on the lowlands," 
said my informant, "and these was jus' bein' spoiled 
by the water and logs comin' on 'em. So they got 
ready to break the dam. They was goin' to fight, if 
necessary, and they took along their bows and arrows, 
and a few rusty old guns they had. They found three 
or four hundred white men ready for 'em, and there'd 
'a' been a battle sure; but the lumber company made 
a treaty with the Indians and agreed to give 'em every 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 2^3 

year free gratis as much rice as they could have 
raised. 

"This season the company is havin' trouble with a 
man who owns a farm where the dam is. He claims 
they got no business to flood his land, and he says they 
must pay him ten cents a thousand for all the logs they 
run through the dam. He says he's goin' to keep the 
gates in the dam locked until they agree. They offered 
five hundred dollars to buy him off, and when he re- 
fused it they sent a hundred men to clean him out; but 
be made the men a speech and the whole lot quit. 
Most everybody up there is in sympathy with him, 
because the lumber company has been pretty arbitrary 
and acted as if no one got any rights but them. The 
man has his Winchester ready, and he's put up a 
stone building with port-holes in it, and he and his wife 
are in there. Last thing I heard he'd wounded the 
sheriff who was goin' to arrest him, and it was ex- 
pected the governor would send troops to shoot him 

out. 

One of my rambles took me several miles up the 
valley. The roads were a serious handicap to the 
pleasures of the walk, for they were ankle deep with 
dust and sand. The teams I met moved at a snail's 
pace, the wheels ploughing heavily into the sand. 
Sometimes the occupants of the vehicles took pity on 
the horses and got out and plodded along beside them. 
Back from the river the land rose in steep bluffs to a 



234 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

higher level, and the roads were harder. The uplands 
were for the most part a great unfenced plain with 
wooded ridges off in the distance. There were occa- 
sional groups of farm buildings, and now and then 
workers and teams toiling in the fields. Much spring 
work was still to be done, and in some of the last year's 
cornfields the shattered stalks were standing as yet 
undisturbed. The wind was blowing, and it rustled 
through the dry, faded cornstalks with a shivering and 
lonely sort of a dirge. 

Here and there along the horizon smoke was rising 
from woodland fires, and its pungent odor pervaded the 
air. Considerable damage was being done, though the 
local forests were not very large or valuable. As 
a rule the fires are allowed to burn themselves out; 
but occasionally the farmers go in force and try to 
subdue the devouring flames. 

The farmhouses of the region were usually of brick 
or stone, snug and substantial, with numerous out- 
buildings. There were few trees and little shrubbery 
about them, and in general the landscape was singularly 
barren and forbidding. I could not help fancying that 
I was far in the north, where the chill of winter is so 
prolonged that the growths of forest and field get no 
chance to attain full development. Yet the trim dwell- 
ings and big barns seemed to proclaim plentiful har- 
vests and a large degree of prosperity. Dairying is 
the chief business. Great quantities of milk are pro- 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 235 

duced for the creameries, and everywhere were broad 
pastures and grazing herds of cows. 

The sky had been gradually clouding all day, and, as 
the afternoon advanced, the light faded into a gray 
gloom. I turned back toward the town and was fortu- 
nate in getting there ahead of the storm. We had two 
or three showers slapdashing around in the night, and 
it began raining again in the morning. The landscape 
was dim and blurred with the driving storm, and I could 
scarcely see the bluffs and trees on the opposite side of 
the stream. 

My landlord advised me to call on a certain old 
gentleman who lived on the outskirts of the town 
and who made a specialty of collecting geological and 
Indian relics. "I'll lend you an umbrell," said he, 
in conclusion, "and that'll stop the rain. Then you'll 
leave it somewhere and forget it if you're anything 
like me. So I won't lend you my best one." 

I found the person recommended at work under a 
shed — a white-haired countryman in a red shirt and 
an ancient slouch hat. Beneath the trees in his garden 
he had a little building packed full of his gather- 
ings, and these he took great satisfaction in showing 
to me. There was no end of stones, beautiful and 
curious — meteorites, petrifactions, corals, crystals, 
and I know not what. Among the rest were many 
Indian implements varying from tiny bird arrows to 
heavy mauls and axes. Collecting had been a life- 



236 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

long enthusiasm, and his gatherings were locally quite 
famous. 

"The teachers in the town schools been comin' here 
lately and bringin' the children to see the stones," said 
he. "They think the scholars can learn considerable 
that way which they couldn't learn out of books. But 
some of our people are afraid the children'll learn a 
little too much. We got one preacher in particular that 
claims they'll all get to be infidels because I tell 'em 
some o' the facts o' geology that don't fit with his 
theological ideas. He tackled me one day on the street 
to complain of what I'd been sayin' to the children 
about the age of the earth. * God made this world in 
six days,* said he, *and there ain't but six thousand 
years passed since.' 

"'Why,' I said, 'I got stones in my museum a half- 
inch thick that was found in the ocean bed, and that 
couldn't 'a' been made there in less'n fifty thousand 
years.' 

"*Oh, no,' he says, *you're mistaken. Don't you 
believe the Bible V 

"'Well,' I says, 'the Bible is a pretty fair middlin* 
sort of history of the Jewish people; but it ain't no 
scientific work.' 

"Talking with him was a waste of breath. That 
feller wouldn't know beans if he had his head in 
the bag. He's very religious, of course; but that's hu- 
man nature — the more ignorance, the more religion. 




I 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 237 

I can remember when people all thought as he does; 
and it'd surprise you how bigoted some o' the preachers 
was. For instance, there was a preacher we had in 
my boyhood days who made a great whoop and hurrah 
about keepin' the Sabbath, and he wouldn't never 
preach of a Sunday without givin' us a good stiff 
warnin' about goin' to church. He claimed the Bible 
would back him up in all he said. But it wouldn't, 
and after church, one day, I asked him a few questions 
and got him cornered. Then he spoke to my father 
and said, 'If that was my boy I'd tie him to a tree and 
whip him till the blood run off his heels.' 

"My father had been a-listening to our talk, and he 
said, 'You ain't been fair. You didn't answer him, and 
this is the last time I'll come to hear your preachin'.' 

"He never went to that church again, and I been 
doin' my own thinkin' ever since." 

The town was still young, and there were persons 
living in it who had been residents from the start. 
Such persons liked to recall the early hardships, and 
I enjoyed listening to the story of their experiences. 

"My folks was the first people here," said one man. 
"We were a month on the road comin'. Sometimes 
we'd make fifteen miles a day, and then again not 
more'n three or four. Most of our stuff was in a big 
canvas-topped wagon drawn by a yoke of cattle. We 
had, besides, a lighter covered wagon drawn by one 
horse. Us kids rode in that. We carried our food. 



238 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and when we run short we could buy more; for the 
country was settled some until we got most here. 
The roads was pretty bad and the last part of the 
journey there was nothin' but Indian trails. The 
woods was full of fallen trees, and often we'd have to 
chop 'em away in order to get along. When we come 
to a stream we usually had to ford it, though sometimes 
there'd be a ferry. 

" People movin' like that was in the habit of goin' 
in companies of from two to half a dozen families. We 
had several other families goin' with us, and whenever 
some wagons got ahead of the rest, the people that was in 
front would every now and then write on a slip of paper 
and put it on a stick side of the road tellin' when they 
passed. We always tried to camp where we could get 
water easy. If we found a good stream in the middle 
of the afternoon we'd stop there, for fear we wouldn't 
do as well later. We'd build a fire on the ground 
and get the kittle boiling, and perhaps we'd ketch a 
mess of fish. Some nice evenings we'd sleep on the 
ground or in a tent; but generally we bunked in the 
wagons. 

"When we got here we put up a log house. The 
walls was of logs, and we split logs for the floor and for 
the roof and window-casings and doors. Our chimney 
was made of mud and sticks. We didn't use any nails 
or iron worth mentioning in the whole job. Wooden 
pins did for nails, and leather straps for door hinges. 







At the Back Door 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 239 

The latches for the doors was wooden, and a string 
was hitched on to the latch and run out through a hole 
above. When you wanted to come in, you yanked the 
string and that lifted the latch, and you only needed to 
pull in the string and the door was locked. 

"Well, there we was, a few families of us, and the 
nearest settlement was Reed's Landing, down where 
the Chippewa joins the Mississippi. We had horses 
and oxen, but no roads, and we had to get our supplies 
from Reed's Landing on foot. The distance was only 
twenty miles; but it would take father two days to 
come back with a sack of flour on his shoulder. The 
flour made a big load and he'd go pokin' along pretty 
slow. At night he'd stop and build a fire and roll up 
in his blankets and go to sleep. That winter we had 
the most snow I've ever seen. It lay four feet on a 
level and the drifts was ten feet deep. When we run 
out of grub and father had to go to Reed's Landing, 
he'd put on snowshoes and drag a sled after him with 
his gun strapped to it. 

"We did without most everything that wa'n't abso- 
lutely necessary those first years. Pork was twenty- 
five cents a pound and other things in proportion. We 
had just one hen, and the eggs she laid was worth a 
dollar and a half a dozen. So we didn't eat 'em, but 
exchanged 'em for coff^ee. We generally had bread, 
though it wa'n't half the time we had wheat flour. 
Corn-bread was the standard. Venison was plenty. 



240 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

A fellow could go back here on the bluff any time and 
kill five or six deer in a day. I've seen deer run through 
the streets among the log houses and wooden stores. 
It was no excitement at all to see one swim across 
the river. Sometimes we'd run out and take a boat 
and foller after the deer and kill it with a paddle. 
The winter of the big snow a man could go on 
his snowshoes and knock the deer down with an 
axe. 

"We used to lay by a good deal of dry venison. We'd 
first salt it down for a few days, and then hang it by the 
kitchen fire to dry. The dried meat was called jerked 
venison. I can remember settin' on the doorstep eatin' 
it when I got hungry between meals. Us kids was 
eatin' all the time. Everything tasted good then. 
When you get older your appetite goes back on you; 
but you most likely think there's a difference in the 
cookin'. You say to your wife, 'Gosh, darn it! my 
mother use to cook food that was good.' But it wa'n't 
the cookin' ! — it was your appetite that was good. 
These little rascals knocking around on our streets are 
ready to eat anything and enjoy it, and so it will be 
always. 

"One food we had regular was hominy. We'd sit 
up nights to shell the corn. To take the hulls off we'd 
boil it in lye, and after that, it was boiled in water to 
get rid of the lye. Then it needed to be renced three 
or four times and was ready for a little seasonin' of 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 241 

pepper, salt, and lard. We had fried hominy about 
every mornin'. 

" Do you know what pumpkin butter is ? We made 
it by boiling the pumpkins in a big kittle, then squeez- 
ing the juice out in a press, and straining and boiling 
it down. Perhaps it would be thickened some with 
apples. You spread that on a piece of bread, and 
you'd think it was the only thing in the world. 

"There was no beef or milk to be had at first; but 
more people was comin' into the country all the time, 
and they soon brought cattle and begun growin' pota- 
toes, and then we was all right. We made roads, too, 
and the lumber companies got a-goin', and the logs and 
rafts was floatin' down the river. To get our supplies 
easier the people here built a keel boat forty feet long 
and ten wide, and they use to pole it down to Reed's 
Landing and back. When the wind was right they'd 
put up a big sail. It took four men to handle it, and 
they was several days comin' back against the current. 

"Of course there was Indians around; but they was 
perfectly friendly at first. They would come to our 
house now and then and ask for something to eat. 
Mother'd give 'em a slice of bread spread with lard. 
We didn't have no butter — didn't know what butter 
was. They were great beggars, and they'd steal any- 
thing they could lay their hands on — I've been to their 
villages and inside of their wigwams. The wigwams 
had a frame of sticks set up cone shaped and covered 



242 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

with hides, and they always was dirty and had a smoky 
smell. When a family got hungry they boiled up a 
mess of meat, and each of 'em would set down and eat 
a chunk. They didn't wear much clothes in summer; 
but in winter they had a full suit of buckskin, and put 
on leggings, moccasins, and blankets. Most of 'em 
scratched over a little ground and raised a few pump- 
kins and some corn. They ain't got the ambition to 
do any more than that, even now. The fact is, you 
can't civilize an Indian. They're just like a partridge. 
It's their nature to be camping out. You can educate 
them as much as you please, and they'll go wild again 
and get back to their old ways and haunts. 

"In 1857, I think it was, when I was about eight 
years old, the Chippewas and Sioux fought a battle 
here. We saw the two parties arrive late one day, and 
we knew at once there was goin' to be trouble and was 
well scared. All the whites got together in the biggest 
and stoutest log house. About dark I slipped out and 
went down by the river and hid where I could look on. 
I got near enough to one of the parties so I see their war 
dance. They formed a circle with a feller settin' in 
the centre poundin' a drum, and while they danced 
they sang in a kind of monotone and waved around 
their guns and bows and arrows and tomahawks. It 
wa'n't long before the fighting began, and some Indians 
was in canoes and some on the bank, and I saw 'em 
killin' and scalpin' each other. Pretty soon father 




Making Lye for Soft-soap 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 243 

come lookin' for me, and he give me the worst Hckin' 
I ever had. 

"There was lots of elk when we first come and quite 
a few moose and plenty of timber wolves. Week 
before last a feller brought to town seven little wolves 
he'd caught back in the woods. It was a good haul, 
because there's a bounty of six dollars apiece. I hear 
every little while of some farmer who has lost sheep 
carried oflF by the wolves. I've had 'em kill calves of 
mine a year old. I come across five or six wolves 
chasin' a deer through the woods once. They had it 
jus' about petered, and when it come opposite me they 
downed it. Then I stepped up and they all run but 
one. I fixed him with my gun and got the deer. They 
hadn't harmed it any but the throat, and I cut off what 
meat I could carry handy, and the rest I hitched to an 
iron-wood sappling that I bent over and then let it 
swing up into the air. That hoisted the carcass out 
of the wolves' reach. 

"A wolf is a funny animal. You find a nest and 
handle the young, and the old wolf will go off and 
desert 'em. When we was new to the country we was 
afraid of the wolves; but we soon got used to their 
ways and learned there was nothing to be scared of. 
Even if you are alone and it's night they won't touch 
you if you've got a fire built. I wouldn't mind meet- 
ing eight or ten of 'em if I had a good club. Ordinarily 
they'll run from you ; but they might attack you if they 



244 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

was very hungry. I've never had any trouble with 
'em, and I been out all sorts of times and places. If 
you're passin' along a lonely road after dark you'll 
hear 'em howl to get their gang together. They know 
you are there, and somewhere olF on the bluffs they'll 
be answering one another; but after they've sized you 
up they'll go away. 

"We had wildcats here — oh. Lord, yes! And we 
had bears; but bears are harmless beasts. Of course, 
corner one up or get him in a trap and he'll fight. Even 
a deer'U fight in such circumstances. I've had 'em 
raise up in a huckleberry patch and look at me; but 
they didn't oflFer to do me no harm. I'm often asked 
if bears ever chase any one. Well, I've heard people 
say so; but I didn't believe it. We had bear meat 
frequent to eat. It had a wild taste; but if the creature 
was young and fat, the meat was mighty good. I'd 
like a nice chunk for supper to-night — you bet your 
life I would. 

"Squirrels was numerous, and they are now. I went 
out here last fall and shot three or four off one tree. 
There was lots of beaver, especially on the small 
streams, and there are some left still; but they're a 
cute animal, and you would have trouble findin' 'em. 
We did a good deal of trappin' in the old days. Quite 
a few follered that as a business. October and Novem- 
ber was the best months, but the early spring was good, 
too. Most of us set traps on the cricks and went to see 




Starting for Work 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 245 

what we'd got every day. Some fellers would build 
camps on the shores of the wild lakes and stay there 
to hunt and fish right along durin' the season. The 
fish was ten to one what they are now — yes, a hundred 
to one. I could go down here to the river, and in five 
minutes ketch the finest string of black bass you ever 
set eyes on. At the mouth of the little crick near our 
cabin I've ketched of an evening a hundred pounds of 
pike and pickerel with no trouble at all. And talk 
about trout — every brook was full. It makes me lone- 
some to think about how few there are now. 

"Within three years after we settled here the place 
had grown to quite a village, and there was a store, a 
hotel, and a sawmill. We was jus' thinkin' we had got 
well established when there come a flood that pretty 
near cleaned us out. It was in May after the snow was 
all gone, and the rise was caused wholly by heavy rains 
in the north. We slept upstairs, and the river rose so 
in the night that next morning when father come down 
he stepped off the stairway into the water. He hurried 
and got a flatboat he had, and we put what goods we 
could in it and went to the bluffs. All the cattle and 
pigs was drowned, and the booms broke so the river 
was full of floatin' logs. The logs punched through 
the house walls, and some of the cabins was tipped 
over, and ourn was carried away. After the flood was 
past we straightened up what buildings was left and 
moved 'em to higher ground. 



246 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"We was soon prosperin' again. It was easy pickin' 
up money then. I've seen the day, my friend, here in 
this town, when you couldn't get a man to do a day's 
work for you. Everybody had plenty of money and 
they wa'n't anxious to work for any one but themselves. 
Well, sometimes you can't get a man now. It's almost 
impossible to get one on Sunday to do a job for you. 
'I'll come if it rains,' he'll say; but otherwise he'll 
be out on the water or monkeying around with the 
girls. 

"We used to be more dependent on ourselves — did 
our own spinning and knitting and all that. Lots of 
people back in the country spin yarn yet and knit the 
family stockings and mittens, and they often knit to 
sell to our choppers and teamsters. The things they 
knit are good and thick and jus' right for people who 
are out in the cold much. 

"Mother used to fry out the grease from the bears, 
deer, and coons we killed and make it into candles; 
but sometimes we'd run short of candles and have 
nothing better for a light than some grease in a dish 
with a rag set up in the middle. We thought coon 
grease was specially good for boots. I've seen my boots 
so darn stiff when I got up in the mornin' I couldn't 
get 'em on until I'd give 'em a good rubbing with coon 
grease. It was our idea the boots lasted longer if we 
changed feet with 'em every day, because what they'd 
run over one day they'd run back the next. 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 247 

"Mosquitoes bothered us a good deal more than they 
do now. You see there was no such thing as netting to 
keep 'em out. We had a regular smudge kittle fixed 
with a hole near the bottom to make a draught for the 
fire that we'd start inside. When it was smokin' good 
we'd carry it through the house. I've known father to 
get up in the night when the mosquitoes was real bad, 
and spread some powder on a dish and touch it off. 
The mosquitoes couldn't stand that kind of a smudge. 

" Every spring we'd go across the river three or four 
miles to a camp in the woods to make maple sugar. 
We had a log shed there, open in front, facing our fire. 
We'd tap a thousand trees. I c'n remember just as 
well as if it was yesterday the sumach spiles we used, 
and the basswood pans we chopped out to catch the sap, 
and all about it. We fixed up a sort of oven with stones 
and clay, and set on it a shallow pan we made out of 
sheet iron, with board sides. Then we found the big- 
gest basswood we could, and cut it down and chopped 
it out into a trough twenty feet long to hold the sap 
when we brought it in from the sugar bush. An ox- 
team would be busy all the time hauling. The oxen 
were hitched to a draw made of a heavy tree crotch, 
shaped with our axes into a rough sledge. On that we 
set a hogshead. The basswood trough was propped 
up on blocks, and there was a little trough connecting 
it with the boiling pan, so we could run in more sap as 
it was needed. Some of us had to be on hand all the 



248 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

time, for we kept the boiling going without any let-up. 
We'd take turns standing watches during the night. 

"After we'd got a mess boiled down to syrup we'd 
strain it through a cloth. Then we'd put it in a kittle 
we had hung from a pole laid on two crotched sticks 
over an open fire, and boil it down to sugar. The sugar 
we made into cakes, and some of it we sold, and the 
rest we used. It was the only sugar we had. The last 
run of sap was rather poor, and we'd save a couple of 
barrels of it partly boiled down and take it home and 
leave it in the yard with the bungs out of the barrels. 
It would turn into the best kind o' vinegar. Some- 
times we'd pour a little of the hot syrup on the snow and 
it would form into a kind of gum — very sticky and 
very sweet. Once a feller who had false teeth come 
over to our camp and tried some of the gum. It pulled 
his teeth loose and he was an hour gettin' 'em in order 
again. Lord Harry ! we had lots of fun over in the 
sugar bush. In the night the bears and wildcats would 
come prowlin' around and carry things off if we wa'n't 
careful. 

"We could easily get all the honey we wanted. If 
you happened across a bee tree you jus' cut your 
initials on the bark, and that was a sign it was yourn, 
and if anybody else happened to find it he wouldn't 
meddle with it. You could come and cut the tree down 
and chop the honey out when you was ready. Now 
and then we'd hunt for bee trees by goin' out in the 



New Times and Old in Wisconsin 249 

fields and puttin' molasses or somethin' sweet on a 
block. Pretty soon a bee would find it and fill up, and 
when he started for home you'd track him. After father 
had cut down a bee tree he'd put the bees in a box and 
take 'em home, and they'd go right on makin' honey. 
I want to tell you, brother, it was just a delight to be 
a boy here then. 

" Our first school was kept in the houses, right through 
the village, taking every house in turn where there was 
children ; and at whatever house the teacher was havin' 
school there she boarded. The first building put up 
for the school was of logs chinked with clay. We had 
no desks, but sat on backless wooden benches and held 
our books in our laps. 

"As I grew older I had my best times at the dances. 
Winter was the dance season and we'd go somewhere 
two or three times a week. We'd start early and 
take an ox-team and fill the body of a big sled with 
straw and blankets and all pile on and ride to the farm- 
house where we had been invited. We didn't put on 
no style. All a feller needed to do was to get his over- 
alls washed so he could slip 'em on clean; and if a girl 
wore a new calico dress she was a dandy. A violin 
furnished music for the dancin'. Most generally 
ever)Abody baked up some food to take, and along about 
midnight we'd have a feast of bread and butter, cake 
and pickles, and there was a chunk of boiled pork 
from which we sliced off what we wanted. 



250 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"While the town was new it was kind of a rough 
place. You could see a fight any time. The 'general 
store' kept a barrel of corn whiskey in the cellar or 
back room, and was ready to fill a pint bottle or a gallon 
jug for whoever wanted to pay the price of it. 

"The people that come in here early was religious, 
and my mother learnt me to say my prayers when I 
went to bed. We soon had a preacher, and he was a 
good one, too, though he had to get his livin' mostly 
by workin' in the fields. At first we met in one or two 
of the larger houses for our prayer meetin's and church 
services; but later used the schoolhouse. Once we had 
a revival and I attended it with my girl. She got quite 
excited, and before I knew what was happening she 
started for the mourners' bench. She didn't ask me if 
I'd go. She jus' got up and went all by herself. Well, 
she kneeled down there, and I see right next to 
her a feller kneelin' she'd been goin' with some and 
who was a rival o' mine. I said, 'By gosh! I can't 
stand that ! Maybe he'll be ketchin' her.' There was 
jus' a little room between her and him, and I stepped 
up and kneeled so as to separate 'em. 

"I cut him out that time, and he didn't marry that 
girl. As far as that goes, neither did I. Oh, well, you 
can't be young but once." 

Note. — At any town of reasonable size you will find a good hotel, 
and when you are once lodged to your satisfaction you can proceed to 
get acquainted with the country around in your own way. 



XIV 

HOUSEBOAT LIFE 

OF all the dwellers in the valley of the great river, 
those who live in the houseboats have by far the 
most picturesque environment. You find them 
everywhere from St. Paul to New Orleans, and not only 
on the main river, but on all the larger tributaries. 
There are many thousands of these water-gypsies in all, 
though the number fluctuates, and in winter the northern 
regions are pretty much deserted by them. Sometimes 
you may see a score or more boats in the neighborhood 
of a single large town, and again, the flotilla may be 
reduced to a half dozen. 

The boats vary surprisingly in size and architecture. 
Every man builds according to his means, his chance 
whims, and the material he may have at hand. Some 
boats are hardly bigger than an ordinary skiffs and are 
roofed with canvas stretched over hoops. The dwellers 
crawl inside as into a hole in the ground. Other boats 
are large, convenient, and attractive, and make homes 
by no means to be despised. They have several rooms, 
and very likely "are as nice inside as the parlor in any- 
body's house." One such craft was pointed out to me 

251 



252 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

which had cost fifteen hundred dollars. But the vast 
majority cost less than one hundred dollars, and many 
not half or quarter that sum. A large portion of the 
necessary materials can be picked up along the river 
without expense; for boards, plank, and timbers are 
always being carelessly lost into the water by the men 
who handle them on the scows and about the sawmills. 
The river people themselves commonly call these float- 
ing homes "shanty-boats," and that indicates their gen- 
eral character. They are mostly rudely built in the first 
place, get little care, and in a few years go to pieces. 

One of the first that I investigated was at Baton 
Rouge, moored by the shore just aside from the wharves. 
The house part was a single room about 8 by 12 feet, and 
the family consisted of a man and wife and two daugh- 
ters. They said they had been living on a larger boat, 
but the bottom "got bad," and it sank. The wreck 
was close by, half submerged. The people were from 
the North, which they had abandoned because the 
woman's lungs couldn't stand the cold. The house- 
boat afi^orded a cheap means of shifting to a kindlier 
climate, and also served after they got South as an 
economical home. There were no taxes to pay, and 
no rent; you could catch your own firewood, and with 
hook and line supply a good share of your own meat, 
and these were no mean advantages to a family in 
straitened circumstances. 

A good many boats have a paddle-wheel at the stern 




A House-boat Dog 



Houseboat Life 253 

and gasoline power, and go where they will, quite in- 
dependent of the rest of the world. Such boats do 
considerable business as tugs, towing other boats, 
barges, and rafts, and doing whatever small jobs come 
their way. Certain of these gasoline craft are floating 
sawmills and are known as "drifting boats." In every 
bend of the river is lodged an enormous "drift" of 
floodwood — " millions of cords," explained a Cairo 
man. "And some drifts are a mile across. Why, 
there's enough firewood in the drifts between here and 
Memphis to supply the whole United States for six 
months. The drifting boats make considerable money 
dragging logs out of the mass, sawing them into 
boards, and selling the boards at the small towns 
along." 

There are various other ways to make profit out of 
the river wreckage. Some men do a good business 
rescuing the ownerless trash that is afloat and working 
it up into cord-wood or sawing it into stove length. In 
New Orleans you often see miniature woodyards on 
the wharves, and I heard of men who "got rich" there 
selling stove wood they had manufactured from the 
river rubbish, twelve sticks for a nickel. 

I saw at Vicksburg an allied industry, which was the 
conversion of stray cypress logs into shingles. The logs, 
as they were caught, were tied alongshore, and, lying 
there in the water, were laboriously sawed into sections 
of shingle length. When a section had been sawed, it 



254 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley- 
was rolled up on the shore and split into moderate-sized 
blocks, and these were reduced with frow and maul to 
shingles in the rough. After that the shingles only 
needed a little shaving to smooth and taper them, and 
then could be packed and were ready for sale. Several 
shingle-makers were established alongshore, all negroes, 
and each man doing business on his own account. They 
had rough little shanties to work in when the weather 
was not favorable. I tried to find out something about 
the rate of production by this antique method, but the 
old shingle-man with whom I talked, said, "I never 
tried an experience to see how many I could do in a 
day." 

He affirmed that he only got a bare living out of the 
work, and added, "I'm a poor man, but I got a proud 
mind. If I had de money accordin' to my mind I'd 
be all right, I do believe. What I want now is to see de 
river fall like de bottom gwine to drop out. I want it 
to git off de farmers' land. Dey ought to be plantin'. 
If de water keep on disaway, dey won't be prosp'rous, 
an' den dey cain't buy shingles." 

About this time a colored woman came down to the 
shore laden with a basket and bundles and prepared to 
get into a boat. Some distance off across the water 
was an island, and among the bushes over there were 
a number of houseboats, in one of which the woman 
lived. 

"How's yo' man ?" asked the shingle-maker. 



Houseboat Life 255 

"Oh, jes' so-so," was the reply. 

"He been laid up a long time now." 

"Yas, an' when I think how many been took sick an' 
died since I begun takin' keer o' him, I wonder dat he 
am alive." 

"Hit yo' good nussing, sister. Dat's better'n a whole 
lot o' dis hyar strong doctor's medicine." 

"I know it; but dar's spells when I'm afraid I git 
worried to death he feel so bad an' miserable all de 
time. Hit seem like he not got any kind o' patience. 
He jes' draggin' aroun' complainin', an' he tell how 
heaven is de Ian' of rest, and he ready to go dar. He 
say he doan' never want to be ole unless he gwine to 
git well." 

" Yo' mus' cheer him up, sister," advised the shingle- 
maker. "Tell him he gettin' along as well as could be 
expect. Hit never do to disencourage a sick person. 
Dey die den anyway." 

Two of the old man's boys, not yet in their teens, 
were with him and aided him more or less, but put in 
most of their time playing and idling. They were not 
interested in the conversation with the houseboat 
woman, and they talked about other matters. For in- 
stance, the older boy asked this curious question, "Ain' 
yo' never seen a muskeeter settin' on a tree an' bark .f"' 

"Co'se I hain't," was the reply. 

"Well," said the first boy, "if he set on de tree he got 
to set on de bark too, ain't he.'"' 



2^6 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The other boy could not dispute that proposition and 
after a little discussion, the first boy challenged his 
comrade with the remark that he could make him say 
"black." 

"No, yo' cain't," declared the second. 

"Yes, I kin — what de colors of de American flag.'"' 

"Red, white, and blue," responded the second boy. 

"Dar, yo' said blue!" exclaimed the first. 

" But yo' tol' me yo' make me say black," the other 
protested. 

"Well, yo' done said black now," said the first boy 
triumphantly. 

There was an unusual number of shanty-boats along 
the Vicksburg river-front. The skipper of a gasoline 
craft said most of them were there on account of high 
water, but they would all "skedaddle" away when the 
river resumed its normal level. As for himself, his 
boat had been bringing wood from the "bayous and 
swamps," and he had "got a pretty good dose of 
malaria back there," and was waiting till he felt better. 

At Memphis was another flotilla of houseboat refu- 
gees; but here many landspeople were among the boat 
dwellers. A crevasse had broken in the levee across 
the river, and a vast amount of country was flooded. 
Five thousand people had fled to the Memphis bluffs, 
and some were living in tents along shore, some in im- 
provised huts, and some in houseboats. "It's like an 
ocean over thar," said one of the boat inhabitants — 



Houseboat Life 257 

"no land anywhar. I tell you the farmers has a hard 
time hyar in the Mississippi valley, and I'm afraid the 
South'll jis' natcherly be ruined. I had a farm till 
last year. That was the worst year ever known in the 
history of the world, I believe. The flood come in 
March and kept raisin' and raisin' till it was higher'n 
we'd ever seen it. I had a big fine house that cost six 
or seven hundred dollars. It was on posts five feet off 
the ground, so I thought it was safe; but the water got 
into it and I had to make scaff^olds to walk around on. 
Finally the water was most up to the eaves, and then 
come a wind with waves ten feet high that smashed the 
windows and knocked down my scaffolding and set 
tables and bureaus and everything afloat. It was dis- 
tressin' ! — awful ! We had such a storm that ever'one 
thought me 'n' my ole woman was gone up. 

"Lots o' people were drowned jis' like rabbits, an' 
a good share o' those that lef their homes an' got away 
had to camp on the levee. It was a dreadful, cold, 
stormy time of year, and thar was sickness an' acci- 
dents an' many deaths from the exposure. Thar was 
no way to git coffins — no way to git nothin' — and 
they had to sew the bodies up in sacks with sand 
enough put in to make 'em sink, and then they'd throw 
em in the river. One woman whose brother was 
buried that way went crazy. 

"For our cattle and horses every farmer had to build 
a raft — what we call a stock stomp. We'd have a 



258 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

fence around it, but the critters would be pretty well 
crowded on it and they'd git to fightin' an' hookin' an' 
push each other overboard. 

"When the water went down thar was eighteen 
inches o* mud in my house. It looked like the home 
of a dirt-dauber. I bored auger holes in the floors to 
let the water drean off, and me 'n' three niggers worked 
two days to git the mud out. My furniture busted to 
pieces or warped, so we couldn't hardly use it, the floors 
swelled out of shape, the paint was ruined, and the 
stuff we'd stored in the loft was all mildewed. It was 
discouragin' work tryin' to dry things out. 

"The farm was all cut to pieces and covered with 
sand ridges. I wouldn't rent it ag'in, and the man that 
owned it had to take care of it himself. Usually, you 
could get three hundred dollars' worth of watermelons 
off it and twenty bales o' cotton and a thousand bushel 
o' corn. Well, he planted watermelons, but they all 
burnt up before they got two inches high. Cotton, he 
didn't try, and he only got forty bushel of corn, and that 
was nothin' but nubbins — calf feed. 

"I'd had enough, and reckoned I was ready for a 
change of residence. After a while I had a chance to 
buy a good boat hull for two dollars, and by spending 
twenty more I built me a fine boat. I could sell it 
easy this year for a hundred dollars, and lots o' these 
drowned-out folks would jump at the bargain." 

One of the boats near by where we stood talking had 



Houseboat Life 259 

a sign painted on the sides — "Medicines for Sale." 
The peddHng boat is a recognized institution, and some 
of them carry a general stock of merchandise worth 
five or ten thousand dollars. Then there are the 
"show boats," the best of which are "floating-palaces" 
to the eyes of the average valley dweller. "They have 
talking machines on board," said the Memphis man, 
"and music and dancing, and they act plays. Some 
of the big ones can take on several hundred people. 
These opera boats travel all the year round. In sum- 
mer they're up among the Pennsylvania mines and North- 
ern cities, and in winter they're among the great planta- 
tions and towns of the South. Nice reserved seats cost 
seventy-five cents to a dollar and a half; but most of 
the seats are jis' benches and only cost a quarter." 

Still another type of houseboat life is to be found in 
the "River Revivalists." "They keep on the go, too," 
declared my Memphis friend, "and they stop at land- 
ings along and advertise meetings on board. I ain't 
much confidence in 'em. Some are only fakirs. I've 
seen considerable much of ministers, and I've made 
up my mind that generally, ashore or afloat, they've 
taken up their callin' as a business and are workin' 
for what thar is in it. They beg every time they look 
at you. The mo' money you got, the bigger Christian 
you are. Yes, sir, you shove up five dollars to the 
preacher, and you c'n drink and cuss and rip and tear 
all you please." 



26o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

The houseboat industry that furnishes a living for 
the greatest number is fishing, and few of the larger 
towns on the river are without some of these houseboat 
fisher-people. I became especially well acquainted 
with them at the mouth of the Ohio. Most of their 
boats were moored near the Kentucky shore, and in 
order to visit them I rowed across the Ohio in a rough 
little skiff I borrowed of a Cairo shanty-boat man. It 
was a one-mile pull through a yellow flood streaked with 
driftwood. A brisk wind blew and the waves heaved 
and now and then broke into a whitecap. At length 
I reached land, tied my boat and followed the shore 
up-stream on foot, passing in places through dense 
groves of cottonvnods and again along strips of ex- 
posed beach. Both among the trees and outside were 
shanty-boats and a variety of little dwellings, the lat- 
ter all on stilts, perched well above the clutch of the 

floods. 

The boat families often had chickens, and owned 
a dog or two and possibly a cat. All these creatures 
get used to their floating habitations and accept 
them as the natural thing. One man pointed out to 
me three chickens about a fortnight old; and they 
were orphans, he said, with no mother hen to look 
after their welfare, and yet they were quite able to take 
care of themselves on water or land. In fair weather 
they spent most of their time scratching around and 
picking up a living on the shore, but they recognized 



Houseboat Life 261 

the boat as their home, and would walk up and down 
the long gang-plank as carefully and safely as any 
cautious human being could. 

It was the same way with the shanty-boat children, 
he affirmed. They soon learned the necessities and 
dangers of the situation and nothing ever happened 
to them. The bit of deck fore and aft was never pro- 
tected with railings, and there was naught to prevent 
the careless child from tumbling overboard; but these 
children were not careless in that respect and had just 
as few mishaps as if they lived on land. 

Alongshore, neighboring the boats, were many nets, 
lines, and other fishing-tackle. Some of the men were 
overhauling their tackle, others were loafing, still others 
were out in their boats pulling up the lines they had 
set. Cairo furnished a good market, and there was not 
the least difficulty in turning a catch of fish into money. 

I had a long talk with a farmer whose house was on 
the bank. He was sitting on his porch reading a 
newspaper as placid and contented as if he had not a care 
in the world. The day was pleasant, and everything 
was favorable for work, and he said he had "right 
smart of ground to make ready"; but it was Friday, 
and the week was so far gone he thought it hardly 
worth while to begin farming until Monday. Besides, 
he felt obliged to watch the river. It was eating into 
the bank a few rods away, opposite his house, and the 
situation was not without danger. 



262 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

Several houseboats were in view. The man was an 
old resident, and he knew the river people well. "I 
been acquainted with a heap of 'em," said he, "and 
ninety per cent of 'em are as honest and good-hearted 
as you could ask. It'd surprise you what fine, intel- 
ligent people there are among 'em. Now the man in 
this hyar first boat hyar — his father was one of the 
leading men in Paducy. He's been well raised and 
educated and is as refined a man as there is in the 
country. But he got to drinkin' and so went on the 
river. 

"Another thing that'd surprise you is the amount of 
money some o' these fellows make — often twenty- five 
and fifty dollars in a day — yes, sir ! If they could 
ketch fish the year round they'd be millionnaires; but 
from the end of June to February it's kind o' dull and 
fish ain't at all plenty. Then, too, when they make 
money, most of 'em drink it up. Whiskey is the only 
thing that keeps 'em from gettin' rich." 

The shanty-boat men, themselves, did not speak 
very enthusiastically of their profits. Many fish are 
caught, but they are not nearly as plentiful as a score 
of years ago. The law interferes, too, and the boat- 
dwellers cannot catch whenever and wherever they 
please. For instance, as one man explained, "We 
ain't allowed in the spring to put wing-nets back in the 
woods across the lakes and slues where the fish spawn. 
If we do, the officers raise all sorts of hell with us, 



Houseboat Life 263 

though they take no notice of the farmers doin' the 
same sort o' thing." 

The autumn is the shanty-boat season. "Some- 
times," said the man I have just quoted, "you c'n 
count ten or fifteen in sight all at the same time floatin' 
down-stream. Maybe a boat will carry a whole family, 
movin' with their cows, hogs, and ever'thing, and the 
household plunder'll be piled all over. But usually 
thar's only a bunch o' men on board. Perhaps they'll 
be mechanics. Work has played out an' they're goin' 
South to hunt; or they got the idee it's too cold up 
North and they're followin' the summer. Thar's as 
fine mechanics as thar is in the country gone down past 
hyar thataway. Wherever night overtakes 'em, they 
tie up in some little pocket along shore that makes a 
harbor for 'em, and thar they're at home. It's kind 
o' risky navigatin' for a greenhorn. You got to look 
out and not git ketched in a storm and have your boat 
swamped against the bank, and you got to be careful 
if you camp on shore whar you stop. First time I was 
on the river I went down with two other men in a skiff, 
and afternoons we'd stop about four o'clock and gather 
up driftwood for a fire and to make a windbreak. Once 
we stayed in some cottonwoods near which the river 
made an eddy, and we put up a little hut about fifty 
feet back from the water; but during the night the bank 
and big trees all caved off so one corner of our shanty 
overhung the river. 



264 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

"When they get down the river the boats ain't worth 
much. Very likely you can't get more'n thirty-five dol- 
lars for a boat that cost a hundred. Lots of 'em are 
sold for about what they're worth for kindling-wood. 
But then, if a man is tired of his boat, he's ready to give 
it away merely to git shet of it. All he wants is to sell 
for enough money to take him back home; and the 
next year he may build another and do the very same 
trick again. I sometimes w^onder what becomes of all 
the shanty-boats. Very few ever go North, and thar's 
been enough gone down to block up the river from the 
gulf to Memphis." 

To the landspeople of the valley the river is some- 
times a demon of destruction; but to the houseboat 
tribe its aspect is seldom otherwise than friendly. It 
is a bountiful fairy, a stream of romance full of change 
and fascination. Whether it rises or falls, it carries the 
houseboats on its bosom. It is a great highway, 
and from the borders the boat-dwellers watch its varied 
traffic. It brings much floating drift from which 
they can pick whatever is of use to them, and it fur- 
nishes easy means of moving to new quarters hundreds 
of miles away if that is their desire. Elbow room 
and home comforts are in many ways lacking on 
the houseboats; and yet people who once adopt the 
river life seldom abandon it. They gain a living with- 
out much trouble, are care-free and bohemian, and 
there is a charm about the water that keeps them 



Houseboat Life 265 

content with what, to an outsider, looks like a very 
rude existence. 

Note. — Wherever you stop along the Mississippi be on the watch 
for the houseboats. They are a perpetual delight to the lover of the pic- 
turesque, and the life of their inmates is unfailingly interesting. Indeed, 
these gypsies of the water seem to stir some primitive impulse in one 
and keep the fancy on tiptoe. You can, if you choose, build or buy 
a boat yourself and float with the current down the stream. The 
most favorable places for seeing the boats, judging from my own 
experience, are St. Paul, Cairo, Memphis, and Vicksburg. 



XV 

THE HEADWATERS OF THE GREAT RIVER 

ON my way north I stopped at those two big 
thriving cities, St. Paul and MinneapoHs, which 
as they are only ten miles apart barely escape 
forming a single community. The river had dwmdled 
into a very moderate-sized stream; but at Minneapolis, 
where it makes the long foaming leap of St. Anthony's 
Falls, it is still impressive and powerful. The river 
scenery at the Falls seemed wonderfully wild and 
chaotic on the uncertain, showery day that I loitered 
along the stream. There were long strings of booms 
and floating logs, and there were series of dams and 
canals and sluiceways, and there were great bridges 
leaping across the channel in all directions. The banks 
were lined with immense flour mills and grain elevators 
and lofty, smoking chimneys, and these structures 
loomed on the rocky bluff's through the mists and murk, 
menacing and tremendous. The roar of the waters 
was in my ears, the throb and rattle of machinery, the 
shrieking and rushing of the trains as they glided along 
the verges of the cliflFs or across the bridges. Alto- 
gether I felt as if this might be the borderland of Hades. 

266 



The Headwaters of the Great River 267 

When I continued my journey I went to the jumping- 
off place, that is, to Bemidji, the town farthest north 
amid the network of lakes which forms the source of 
the great river. Seven or eight years before this had 
been the outskirts of the wilderness, invaded by none 
save a few wandering surveyors, hunters, and lumber- 
men. Now, Bemidji was a city of four thousand 
people, and more were constantly coming. New 
buildings were going up, and you could see the place 
growing day by day and outspreading itself into the 
half-savage woodlands. The streets for the most 
part ran through a forest of Jack pine; but few trees 
were left in the business centre. There you found rows 
of stores and saloons and hotels, some of them substan- 
tial buildings, and others frail and hasty structures 
that will soon have to be replaced. There was the 
same difference in the dwellings. A few were well 
built and handsome; but a great number were not 
much more than temporary shelters. Often they 
rested on wooden blocks, and were banked about 
with dirt in winter to keep the cold winds from 
blowing beneath them. The streets of the suburbs 
were thinly grassed, but the thoroughfares at the 
centre were rutted sand and dust bestrewn with litter. 
Conspicuous in the midst of the business section was 
a swamp with its stagnant pools and rotting logs, 
its stumps and sprouting of bushes. A great saw- 
mill was the chief source of the town's prosperity, 



268 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and the place was full of the rough mill-workers and 
woodsmen. 

I got the impression from some of the persons I 
interviewed that life was held cheap at Bemidji, and 
that there were frequent drunken quarrels and shoot- 
ings, and that the saloons were both the social and 
political centre of the town. "They're never shut," 
I was told, "and a feller can celebrate here about as 
he pleases. We want his money, and we won't stand 
for bavin' any man arrested. Yes, this is a wide-open 
town, and you are free to booze and gamble as long 
as your cash lasts. You can get any sort of a game you 
want — shell game, hand game, cards — everything." 

This is scarcely the whole truth. The town in its 
beginning was decidedly tough, but there has been 
constant and rapid improvement. As one of its lead- 
ing citizens explained to me, "At first I could almost 
count on my fingers the inhabitants who had a whole- 
some respect for law and order. Saloon-keepers and 
gamblers and their following were in the majority, and 
drunks were not considered a serious proposition. Yet 
though you could occasionally see a drunken fight, and 
though sometimes a man would flourish a gun at 
another, we have had only a single murder in our 
history. The fact is, the lumber-jack, unlike the cow- 
boy and miner, rarely carries a gun. He is neverthe- 
less a diflEicult fellow to deal with. The chief ambition 
in life of the professional jack is to keep every dis- 



The Headwaters of the Great River 269 

tillery in the United States running to its full capacity. 
His calling requires a lot of brawn and brute energy, 
and there is not a harder-working man on earth; but 
when he comes out of the woods he wants nothing ex- 
cept lawlessness and plenty of whiskey, and he looks for 
a place where he can spend his money and make his 
presence known. He used to resort to Bemidji, but 
since restrictions have been put on his behavior, he has 
made for smaller towns where he can occupy the centre 
of the stage. With his going there disappeared many 
of the low dives he delights to frequent. A half dozen 
years ago we had forty-six saloons and only two thousand 
people. Now twice the number of inhabitants get along 
with thirty saloons. 

"Any stranger who visited our town in its rougher 
days, and heard a jack let out one of his yells, went 
away and told of the terrible state of affairs existing 
here, and we have not yet succeeded in living down 
the fame the town thus acquired. Gambling is about 
the only serious evil not well under control, and of that 
there is not one quarter what there was formerly. No, 
this is not a blood-and-thunder place. It is a natural 
business centre and has drawn to it an excellent type 
of citizens, and in many respects we have all the social, 
religious, and educational advantages that you could 
get anywhere in a town of its size." 

The place even has its Salvation Army. I stopped 
to listen to a squad of the gospel soldiers one evening. 



■270 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

They had lined up before a brightly lighted saloon with 
their big drum and tamborine and guitar, and they sang 
their songs and made their appeals. Right in front of 
them sat four little girls on the edge of the board walk, 
evidently fascinated by the uniforms and music; and 
quite a group of men gathered, attentive and impressed. 
Yet when the collection was taken up the results were 
only twelve cents, which I thought the soldiers must find 
quite disheartening. 

The town borders a lake of the same name that 
is very pretty, with its encircling of green forests and 
its rafts and rowboats. Sometimes I would hear the 
tremulous laughter of a loon coming over the water, 
and lending emphasis to the wildness of the environ- 
ment. 

Where the river enters the lake is a favorite fish- 
ing place. A few rods up-stream is a bridge that 
was occupied all day by a motley crowd watching the 
lines they had dropped into the current below. Many 
other fisherfolk, old and young, male and female, 
were to be seen along the shores or rowing around 
in the vicinity. Indeed, it seemed, with such a con- 
course of people intent on the sport, that the fish 
would be exterminated. 

"Oh, no!" responded a fisherman to whom I hinted 
this fear, "the country here can't be fished out. We 
got a string of lakes for two hundred and fifty miles 
and there's breeding-places without number that's 




A Batlau 



The Headwaters of the Great River 271 

never disturbed. You won't find no better fishing region 
in the United States. I've ketched pike here that would 
weigh seven or eight pounds and pickerel that would 
weigh twenty pounds. You hardly ever see any one 
going home with less than a dozen or fifteen pounds of 
fish, and often three or four times that much. 

"You ain't from Chicago, be you? A feller from 
there was talkin' with me yesterday, and I never met 
such a crazy chump. He had a little light pole with a 
reel on to it, and he had a handnet and a fish-basket and 
all kinds o' flies and fixin's. He was fussin' around the 
whole time like a settin' hen off its nest, and he tol' me 
my way of ketchin' fish was jus' butchery and no sport 
at all. He said you shouldn't pull a fish right out when 
it got on your hook. His way was to reel it up and let 
it out and keep on a-foolin' for a quarter of an hour or 
so before he landed it, even if it was nothin' but a little 
sunfish." 

The river at Bemidji was no more than a creek, 
crossed by a one-span wooden bridge, yet the distance to 
the remotest forest lakelet, whence the stream starts, 
is fully half a hundred miles. One day I followed the 
river far back into the woods, keeping for the most part 
to a rough road. The stream, though narrow, ran 
swift and deep and seemed by no means an unworthy 
beginning of the mighty river it was to become. It was 
full of logs ever gliding from above and slipping away 
beyond sight at the next bend. How smoothly and 



272 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

mysteriously they moved through the silent wilderness, 
with only a soft plunk, plunk, as they happened to 
strike one another ! Here and there on the bank was 
a man armed with a pole and canthook, standing guard, 
ready to act if the logs showed an inclination to form a 
jam. 

I had a chat with one of these men. "The stream 
here has only been drove six years," he said. "We start 
the logs every spring as soon as the ice is gone from 
the lakes, which is about May first, and we're gettin* 
out more timber this season than ever. That's be- 
cause the demand and the price has been increasin.' 
We cut everything now — even balsams and Jack 
pine. We didn't use to look at anything like that. I 
presume they do some flim-flam at the mills and tuck 
in a good deal of it with other better timber and sell it 
to them that don't know the difference. The logs 
floatin' down now average pretty poor compared with 
what they did at first. The class of men we're gettin' 
in the woods at present to do the cuttin' has something 
to do with it. They're mostly Scandinavians not long 
from home, and while they have orders not to cut trees 
too small or crooked, they ain't got sense to recognize 
a straight tree when they see it, and don't seem to under- 
stand about size." 

As far as I went I saw no fine woodland. The chop- 
pers had been there before me and left little but ragged 
brush and sapplings and stumps. The only remnants 



The Headwaters of the Great River 273 

of primeval woods that had escaped at all intact were 
occasional dark patches of Jack pine. The breeze kept 
the tall, thickly crowded trees in these groves gently 
swaying, and whispered in the foliage a mystic vernal 
melody, as if of mourning over the forest's doom. 

As I went on, I began to catch the odor of smoke, and 
the woodland gradually became quite hazy. At length 
I passed over a ridge and I could see on ahead glints 
of flame, and hear the sharp crackling of the fire as it 
licked up the dry leaves and grasses. The smoke was 
now dense and choking. I turned aside, hoping to 
escape from the murk and get around the flames; but 
I had not gone far when a wind caught the fire and sent 
it racing over the ground so swiftly and threateningly 
that I took to my heels. Presently I found another 
road that led to the opposite side of a lake, and there I 
met a teamster on his way to town from a logging camp 
forty miles back in the woods. I concluded I had gone 
far enough and he invited me to keep him company. He 
had four horses hitched to a big springless truck wagon, 
and the ride was no joke. We were on the jolt all the 
time — now into ruts, now over humps and roots, and 
now encountering a stump with a sudden collision that 
would slew the wagon sidewise and threaten to shoot 
us off from the lofty seat. I hung on for dear life. 

"This ain't no asphalt road," said my companion. 
"It's jus' a tote road, and farther up the valley it's a 
dern sight worse than it is here. But you needn't 



274 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 
be afraid; I got the seat wired on so that won't fly 

off." 

He gave his horses pretty constant encouragement 

by swearing at them, and now and then launched his 
long whiplash at them with a startling crack. He told 
how three weeks previous he had tipped over h.s load 
as he was driving across a portion of the road that was 
flooded. He rescued his goods and extricated himselt 
as well as he could, but was so delayed that n.ght over- 
took him in the forest. 

"Next thing I knew," said he, "I lost the trail and 
couldn't find it again. So I camped and waited for 
morning. The wolves got scent of me, and 1 guess 
there was a hundred of 'em sneakin around there. 
They have a pretty lonesome sort of a howl, and it 
wa'n't pleasant. Last winter in the chopper s camp 
we'd hear 'em every night; but they was so shy we 
didn't often see 'em." 

We passed two or three tiny farms carved out of the 
wilderness. The settlers had ploughed a ittle land and 
erected log cabins accompanied by huddles of diminu- 
tive outbuildings. I could discover slight encourage- 
ment for agriculture, and said to the driver. This soil 
looks too poor and sandy to pay for cult.vatmg. 

"Yes," he agreed, "you couldn't raise an umbrella 
on it, say nothin' of crops. When the lumber is gone 
the white folks might as well get out of this country 
and leave it to the Indians. There's a good many 




The Forest Fire 



The Headwaters of the Great River 275 

Indians workin' on the river, but they ain't steady 
^oon as eight or ten dollars is due 'em they're ready to 
leave. If an Indian sticks to his job any length of time 
he s got white blood in him. There ain't much in- 
dustty in the full-bloods. In the first place, they ain't 
got no strength. Look at the little leg on 'em —jus' 
about as big as your wrist. All the work they want to 
do IS to hunt and fish. They've been brought up that 
way, and you can't change 'em. If the government 
gives an Indian a good house he's pretty apt to put his 
horse m ,t and keep on livin' in his wigwam himself 
One thing they like to do is to pick wild cranberries and 
sell em in the towns. That job suits 'em because while 
they re pickin' they can be all together having a pow- 
wow. They feel good then. They're great hands for 
steahn _ but I don't know as they're any worse in that 
respect than people generally. I know whites who, 
when they get a chance to steal, will only leave what thev 
can t carry off. The Indians ain't so graspin' as that. 
1 he only time we've had any serious trouble with 'em 
here was m 1898. They had got some whiskey and 
carried It to their reservation. The marshal followed 
em and tried to make arrests, and they resisted. So 
the troops was called out, and a drunken commander 
took a little band of soldiers down in the swamps where 
the Indians were. One of the men stumbled and his 
gun went off. Then the Indians thought they was 
bein assaulted, and they begun firing from ambush. 



276 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

A major and nine men was killed ; but there was no need 
of it. They're a poor degraded people, and one white 
is good for a dozen of 'em if he understands em. Yet 
after that shootin' in the swamps the settlers all around 
was in a pan.c, and they bu.lt forts out of =t"-Ps -d 
logs and dirt to protect their villages and d.d all sorts 

of foolish things." , . . , . . 

Everybody in the north country had their ideas about 
the Indians, and these ideas were not usually very 
flattering. Probably the fairest opinion expressed to 
me was that of a man interested in the lumber busi- 
ness, who had been in the region for a third of a century. 
"I suppose," said he, "you think it's pretty resky l.vm 
where there's so many Indians around; but as far as 
they are concerned a family is as safe here as in New 
York City. I've traded with 'em and trusted em ever 
since I've been here and they always do as they say. I 
they steal it's only for their immediate wants. We 
sometimes have as much as two thousand dollars worth 
of goods in our lumber camp that we leave there with- 
out guard after we get through the winters chopping 
The Indians could help themselves easy, but the only 
thin.. I ever lost was a five-gallon keg of syrup. Later 
an Indian came and told me he took it because he had 
nothin' to eat. He promised to kill me some deer in 
the fall to pay for it, and he did. 

"The Indians don't as a rule cultivate a very close 
friendship with us. That's partly because they re a 



The Headwaters of the Great River 277 

different kind of people, and partly because their ex- 
periences on the frontier with the white men have not 
been altogether happy. The adventurers who first 
came into the country were mostly rough and un- 
scrupulous, and all they cared about was to grab what 
they could for themselves. The impression the Ind- 
ians got from them of the white race was not very 
rosy, and though whites of a better class have come in 
contact with the Indians since, there's plenty of crooked- 
ness yet, and I don't blame the Indians for being sus- 
picious." 

I became a good deal interested in what I heard of 
the Indians and decided I would attempt a closer 
acquaintance with them. There was an Indian settle- 
ment down at Cass Lake, and thither I journeyed. I 
stopped at a town which resembled Bemidji in appear- 
ance and in situation, except that it was a mile removed 
from the lake. On the sandhills near the water was 
an Indian hamlet of a dozen log cabins dotted irregu- 
larly along the ridges, and among them were certain 
diminutive patches of corn and potatoes, with once in 
a while a few rows of beets, carrots, and cucumbers. 
Some dwellings had a little firewood out in front, but 
never a supply that looked at all thrifty or enterprising. 
Usually there was a stump handy where fish were 
cleaned, and the ground about was strewn with fish- 
heads and scales, bits of rabbit fur and duck feathers. 
At the foot of the sand-bluffs was a shallow well which 



278 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

supplied the entire village. It was roughly boarded 
around, and was accompanied by a stick with a crotch 
at one end that was used in lowering and pulling up the 
pails. The women brought tubs from their cabins and 
did their washing by the well when the weather per- 
mitted. Not far away was a little, mound-shaped wig- 
wam scarcely high enough for a grown person to stand 
upright in it. The framework was covered with blank- 
ets, and pine bushes had been cut and leaned against 
the sides to keep the blankets in place. There was a 
fire outside near which a man was squatted scraping 
the hair off from a deerskin that later would be trans- 
formed into moccasins. Beside the man sat a squaw 
holding a pappoose in her lap. She apparently had some 
cooking under way, for over the fire hung a pail sus- 
pended from a stake thrust slanting into the ground. 
It was the most rudely primitive family scene I had ever 
beheld. 

Up in the village I made friends with a young Indian 
who agreed to take me out to one of the islands in the 
lake where I could see virgin forest that had never been 
disturbed by the axe of the choppers. My Indian's 
name was Ben. He was a flat-chested, slouch-figured 
fellow, with one shoulder higher than the other and 
some ugly-looking scars on his neck. These scars, he 
explained, were the results of a fight of a fortnight 
previous with another Indian. "I was workin' on the 
logs then," said Ben, "and he 'n' me was takin' a raft 



The Headwaters of the Great River 279 

down the lake. He got mad and give me two or three 
cuts with a Httle knife he had; but I hit him under 
the chin and knocked him off into the water. I wouldn't 
let him on to the raft again, and he had to swim to shore. 
He tol' me as he swum away that he was goin' to kill 
me, but I ain't seen him since. I sprained my arm 
fightin' with him, and it ain't strong enough for me to 
go to work yet." 

Ben owned a rowboat, and after padlocking his cabin 
door he shouldered the oars and led the way across a 
swampy, brushy meadow to the lake shore. My guide 
bailed out the boat with a leaky tin can and we rowed 
far out into the lake against the wind and the dashing 
waves. In certain places the water was beginning to 
be hidden with sproutings of wild rice, thrusting up 
from shallows that were sometimes only a few inches 
deep, and sometimes fully two yards. Later the rice 
would grow tall and thick and almost impenetrable. In 
October, when the grain is ripe, the grassy jungles 
furnish ideal feeding and lurking-places for the ducks 
and other water fowls. But what is of more importance 
the wild rice is a staple food of the Indians. Two men 
in a birch canoe can gather seven or eight bushels in a 
day. One man sits behind and paddles and the other 
bends the rice stalks over the boat, first from this side, 
then from that, and raps them with a stick, and the rice 
grain comes rattling into the bottom of the canoe. 

After the harvest has been secured and carried 



28o Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

home, a fire is built on the ground, and the rice, a little 
at a time, is put in a kettle and held over the blaze and 
allowed to scorch slightly. Near by, a hole is scooped 
and a big kettle set in it. This is filled half full of 
scorched rice, and a man takes off his shoes and stock- 
ings and tramps about in the kettle to loosen the husks. 
Lastly the grain is transferred to a large pan and win- 
nowed by shaking it in the wind, and then it is stored 
in sacks ready for use. 

When we reached the shore of the island we found a 
faint footpath, and after following it for a time came 
to a sheltered glade where the Indians every spring 
came to make maple sugar. Here was a small shanty 
in which were great numbers of birch bark sap dishes, 
and several casks full of spouts. The sap dishes were 
oblong receptacles that would hold three or four quarts. 
The bent-up ends were tied in place with thongs of 
basswood bark, and slight cracks and holes were mended 
with pitch. The spouts were split out of cedar, and 
were a foot long, two inches broad, and one-fourth of an 
inch thick. They were slightly rounded and sharpened 
to a flat edge at one end. The trees were tapped by 
making a V-shaped cut with an axe, below which an 
incision was made with a round-edged chisel to receive 
the spout. The sugar which the Indians manufacture 
is finely granulated and is put up in stout birch bark 
receptacles shaped like a fish basket, with a bulging 
bottom and a neat cover. These baskets hold about 



The Headwaters of the Great River 281 

sixty pounds each. Quite a party, including squaws as 
well as men, worked together and made the maple woods 
their home while the sap run lasted. 

This portion of the island was grown up to hard- 
wood, but farther on were pines, tall and straight 
and clean-trunked, worthy pillars of the forest temple. 
There was a light undergrowth of saplings, and many 
fallen tree trunks, upturned roots, and a tangle of dead 
branches. Quiet reigned, and the sunlight flickered 
down through the tree-tops on to the thin green foliage 
of the undergrowth, and the thought that the aspect 
of It all had hardly changed for centuries made the 
scene doubly impressive. 

On our way back to the mainland we skirted another 
island and stopped to see the deserted camp of an 
Indian family. The shore was low and wet, and there 
were streaks of bushes, and occasional trees. Under 
one of the trees where the ground was a trifle higher 
than that round about was the frame of a conical wig- 
wam. The family had evidently left the day before, 
and back in the bushes were some of their household 
goods covered with bagging, and under another clump 
was a birch canoe. Ben poked around to see what 
treasures he could find. He removed the strings from 
a pair of discarded shoes, and he picked up and pocketed 
a safety-pin which he spoke of as "a squaw pin." I 
did not wonder the Indians had moved. There were 
remnants offish all about, from which pestiferous clouds 



282 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

of flies arose wherever we went, and the stench was 
insuflPerable. 

We soon embarked once more and resumed our row- 
ing, and presently arrived at the spot where we started. 

On another occasion Ben and I went together six 
miles into the wilderness along the lakeshore to a 
village on an Indian reservation. We followed a nar- 
row path that dodged along through the bushes and that 
constantly turned and twisted to avoid irregularities of 
the ground and whatever obstructions the forest growths 
made. Some of the detours were quite recent and were 
necessitated by a fallen tree-top that one could not easily 
step over or go under. Such obstructions could usually 
have been removed in a few moments by a man with an 
axe; but the trailmakers preferred to go around rather 
than exert themselves to improve the path. Travel- 
ling was no hardship where we had solid ground under 
foot. It was another matter when the route led through 
swampy hollows and we had to jump along on tufts and 
roots and rotting tree fragments. Ben was inclined to 
be contemplative and silent. He replied readily to 
questions, but he had the racial taciturnity. It was 
evident, however, that the woods were his ancestral 
home, and that he felt more free and easy there than 
anywhere else. Little incidents were constantly occur- 
ring that showed his real interests and half-wild char- 
acteristics. Once we encountered a couple of inoffensive 
calves in our path. They looked at us inquiringly, and 



The Headwaters of the Great River 283 

Ben made a sudden run at them, and chuckled gleefully 
as they hurry-skurried off into the bushes. Sometimes 
he would point to certain tracks in the path — a dog's 
footprint, the mark of a moccasin, or whatever it might 
be, and study on its significance. Once he called my 
attention to a rude figure of an Indian cut in the bark 
of a tree by his father ; but it was devoid of any purpose. 
We heard the partridges drumming and Ben stopped to 
listen. A squirrel ran up a tree and sat on a limb 
regarding us alertly. Ben, delighted with the sight, 
called to it in his native language and got out a pistol 
from his hip pocket. Luckily, he had no cartridges; 
yet he took careful aim and snapped the harmless 
weapon and exulted in the thought of what would have 
happened had it been loaded. I asked him about 
some of the birds we heard singing, but he could not tell 
me their names, except that they were "canaries and 
other birds." 

At length we came to the outskirts of the Indian 
village. Some of the cabins were very well placed on 
hills that afforded a wide view over the forest and 
marshes, and over the inlets and broad expanses of the 
lake. They were much scattered, and the woods inter- 
vening between the little clearings shut them away 
from sight of each other. Most of them were beyond 
a stream a dozen rods broad that connected two sec- 
tions of the lake. At the mouth of the stream was a 
boom of logs, and there was no way for us to get 



284 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

across except by walking on that. It was precarious 
footing; but we made the passage in safety, and Ben 
even stopped midway to look at some large fish lazily 
breasting the current. " Gee ! " he said, " I wish I had 

them." 

** Gee," was his favorite exclamation, though he some- 
times used terms more coarse and violent. 

In a grove on one of the hills was a government school. 
A man and wife educated at Carlisle had charge, and 
there were about forty children in their care. The mam 
building was a large, well-built, clapboarded structure, 
and round about were various log barns and sheds. It 
is an industrial school, and besides book education 
the boy pupils learn how to care for cows and horses 
and do gardening, and the girls learn to sew and do 
housework. The children are allowed to visit their 
homes frequently, but are urged not to stay long. If 
they do, their health is apt to suffer, especially in winter; 
for the home huts are very hot and very cold by spells, 
and not at all hygienic. Some of the children accom- 
modate themselves readily to school life and discipline 
and others do not. Ben said he tried it once, but 
he had to take care of horses the whole time, and he 
didn't like that job, and quit. The boys and girls were 
wandering in the woods and by the waters, and I thought 
they seemed to be having a very free and easy time; but 
perhaps it is best that way. A gray-haired, bare- 
headed old Indian lay under one of the trees close to 



The Headwaters of the Great River 285 

the school smoking a large red pipe shaped like a ham- 
mer. There he reclined, stoical and contented, puffing 
away with much the same peace of mind and enjoy- 
ment that a cow has in chewing its cud. 

Ben had two sisters ten and twelve years of age 
among the pupils, and they returned with us. They 
were vigorous and erect, bright-eyed and attractive; 
and they were neatly clothed, but did not put on any 
head covering. When we came to the stream we all 
walked the boom. Ben escorted the girls one at a 
time along the wobbly logs ; but the older maiden when 
she neared the end of the boom ran on alone as nimble 
as a squirrel and made a five-foot jump to the shore. The 
girls now took the lead and swung along at such a rapid 
walk I sometimes had to take a little run to keep up. It 
was a great delight to them to get away from the school, 
and they chattered and laughed, and picked and ate 
some of the abounding wintergreen berries. In the 
swampy glades they gathered great bunches of cowslips, 
which they were doubtful whether to call buttercups 
or water lilies. They tired of carrying them after a 
time, but instead of throwing them carelessly down they 
set them upright on the ground as if the flowers had grown 
there. The mosquitoes swarmed in the woods every- 
where, and the younger girl partially protected herself 
from them by putting her apron over her head. Ben 
gave his hat to the other to wear. 

I parted with my companions at the Indian village 



286 Highways and Byways of the Mississippi Valley 

and continued on up to the town where I rested for a 
time and refreshed myself with a square meal. Then 
I went for a ramble about the streets. It was 
evening — very quiet and warm, and the atmosphere 
was dull with haze from forest fires and pungent 
with dust. Every one was outdoors. The young 
men were playing ball; the children were running, 
laughing, shouting, and disputing; and their elders 
sat at the house-fronts visiting. The mosquitoes had 
invaded the town, and smudges had been resorted 
to quite freely to fend off the pests. I even saw a 
smudge on the windward side of two cows in a little 
enclosure back of one of the log houses. The cows 
stood where they received the full benefit of the smoke 
and seemed quite grateful for it. Some of the houses 
had been smudged out and then closed up, and the 
inmates awaited bedtime sitting outside gathered about 
the smudge pail. I joined one of these groups, which 
included two or three neighbors besides the home 
family. The sun, a great ruddy orb, was sinking be- 
hind the pine woods in the west, and the sky above it 
was flushed with rosy color that faded into saffron and 
light yellow, and then into softest blue. 

When the sun had disappeared and the twilight had 
grown dim, one of the neighbor women of our group 
rose leisurely and said, "Gosh ! I must go home." 

Night was gathering over the ragged little town on 
the sands, and the gloom of the serrated forest that 




The Frame of an Indian Wigwaw 



The Headwaters of the Great River 287 

hemmed it in on every side was deepening into black- 
ness. The children were going indoors, the ball games 
had ceased, and soon the vast silence of the wilderness 
was almost unbroken. 

Note. — Here is tourist country to make one happy — forest and 
Indians and lakes and streams and most wonderful fishing. There are 
hotels, too, which, if not palatial, are at least comfortable ; and yet you 
are where only a few years ago was almost uninhabited wilderness. 
What if a good deal of rawness still shows itself in the towns — that 
is to be expected and only adds zest to the situation and makes the ap- 
peal to the traveller stronger. This northern country for many reasons 
deserves the attention of tourists, especially those from regions long 
settled, where conditions have taken on permanence, and where the 
beginnings are dim with remoteness. 



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Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxidi 
Treatment Date: 

JUL 1i 



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